Chapter 317: The Body Demands Recovery
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 317: The Body Demands Recovery
While Encrid was occupied with his own struggle, repeating his "today";
While Dunchabel and Sinar moved with frantic haste to intercept the light cavalry striking from the rear, locked in a bloody melee with the enemy;
And while Ragna babbled excitedly about finding a breakthrough—calling it "brown feces"—Sachsen was also busy.
‘Hmm.’
For the first time in a very long while, the scent of his own trade hit his nose.
It wasn't a literal smell. Sachsen’s hyper-sensitive five senses had blurred and merged, stimulating a sixth sense that allowed him to perceive the atmosphere as a distinct "feeling."
Silent footsteps. An approaching blade.
What he felt through that sixth sense was visualized clearly before his eyes.
Sachsen slipped away from the ranks of the soldiers. The opposing group recognized him instantly.
They were members of the assassin clan—the true masters of the 'Swamp of Monter,' the assassin guild they had founded in Azpen. These three were of a completely different caliber than the guild’s figurehead leader. Every one of them possessed absolute confidence in their lethality.
The moment they spotted Sachsen, they moved.
‘There’s a clumsy one. Let’s kill him and move on.’
With a single glance, the three shared the same intent.
Sachsen deliberately leaked his presence. He intentionally made noise. He lured them in.
Yes, this was a bait. He was practically begging them to kill him. It was a temptation expressed through his entire body, a silent lie: I am experienced in this kind of fight, but my skills are inferior to yours.
‘Three.’
Sachsen estimated their numbers from the faint trails of murderous intent following him.
As he slipped away from the allied troops with movements as fluid as a rhythmic dance, the three pursuers sprang into action.
A soldier from the allied ranks broke formation. An old veteran, clumsily tugging at his helmet, stumbled forward while clutching a spear to his chest. He was a soldier who strangely drew the eye. His fall was loud; he hit the ground knees-first with a heavy thud, even letting out a startled, "Whoops!"
Regardless of friend or foe, the eyes of the surrounding soldiers turned toward the old man. Amusingly, he was wearing a Border Guard uniform—who knew where he had stolen it.
Without even looking, Sachsen knew the old soldier hadn't actually hit his knees. He had slapped the ground with his thickly gloved hands to create the sound.
At the same time, Sachsen felt a blade whistling toward his back.
It was a thin, skewer-like sword. Watching the old soldier’s antics, Sachsen employed a similar trick.
"Whoa!"
He acted as if startled by the old man and tumbled forward. The way he stumbled made him look exactly like a panicked, foolish recruit.
"You idiot!" an allied commander roared from behind.
To the commander, it looked like Sachsen had broken formation only for an enemy soldier to seize the chance to stab him in the back. Since it appeared he had barely dodged death by pure luck, the commander’s anger was only natural.
Sachsen had no intention of dragging this out. He had engaged in this sort of shadow-warfare so many times he was utterly sick of it.
Even as he fell, he had already released a Silent Throwing Dagger.
Thud.
The old soldier raised his hand to shield his chest. The dagger pierced straight through it, standing upright like a macabre flower arrangement.
"You blocked it," Sachsen muttered indifferently, his waist still half-bent from the fall.
Through the hand impaled by the Silent Throwing Dagger, the old soldier saw Sachsen’s eyes as the younger man raised his head. It was a gaze of pure, chilling indifference.
A red light ringed his pupils, while the centers were a deep, dark brown. Looking into those eyes, goosebumps erupted across the assassin's body.
The clan member ripped the dagger from the back of his hand and flicked his fingers.
[Kill him.]
It was a command given in sign language—an instinctive reaction born from the ominous chill crawling down his spine.
Immediately, the other two clan members revealed their specialties. They hurled poisoned daggers and detonated a poison smoke bomb at Sachsen’s feet.
The allied commander, who had been about to rush in to save the "recruit," froze. He was a veteran of the Border Guard. Looking closely at the man who had stumbled, he realized it wasn't a fool, but Sachsen.
In truth, Sachsen had deliberately shown his face to warn the commander not to interfere, though the man couldn't have known that. If the commander still approached and died, that was simply his fate. It was none of Sachsen’s business. He had kept enough distance to ensure the commander wouldn't die as long as he stayed put. That was the only reason he had broken formation in the first place.
It would have been an easier fight if he had used his allies as shields, but he refrained. At this rate, even if Encrid—the captain—saw this, he wouldn't look at him with those judgmental eyes of his. The captain hated using allied soldiers as meat shields, after all.
‘I’m worrying about the strangest things.’
Sachsen felt as though the blade he kept in his heart was growing dull. Of course, that didn't mean the techniques engraved into his bones had lost their edge.
Swish, swish!
Daggers sliced through the air with sharp whistles, and iron wires were suddenly pulled taut, snapping toward his ankles.
Sachsen perceived it all and dodged. It was a monstrous display of intuition.
It was only natural. The Sense of Evasion, the Gate of the Sixth Sense—these were the very things Sachsen himself had mastered and taught. Furthermore, when it came to pure senses, Sachsen was a genius who had surpassed the level of elves through sheer, grueling effort.
What followed was predictable. The assassins resisted and tried to flee, but Sachsen pursued them one by one, carving "second mouths" into their throats or planting daggers into their hearts like offerings.
Before long, they were far from the main battlefield. No one, friend or foe, had witnessed the true nature of their struggle. Even if they had fought right in front of someone, all the observer would have seen was a blur of steel and shadows.
"Fuck... is that the Dagger of Geor?"
It was the last opponent. The man disguised as the old soldier asked the question as he lay dying, his eyes full of resentment.
"Would knowing make you feel any less bitter?"
"Shit..."
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. If he didn't pull out the dagger embedded in his chest, he might live a few moments longer. However, Sachsen had no reason to grant him that mercy.
Sachsen yanked the dagger out with a wet squelch and leaped backward. As he did, the man spat a needle hidden in his mouth—a final, desperate act of resistance. The needle sliced through the air, flying harmlessly wide.
"You bastard..."
How could he not let his guard down, even for a split second?
Regardless of the assassin’s dying glare, Sachsen remained calm. Standing a few paces away, he watched his opponent with hollow eyes.
While the man drew his final, rattling breaths, Sachsen inspected his own wounds. The traces of poison were clear; black foam bubbled on his skin. It was a deadly toxin, but not one fatal to him. It was a poison he recognized.
Once the last assassin died, Sachsen searched the bodies out of habit. He found needles, poison powders, and smoke bombs.
Then, he saw the tattoo.
The Black Lily—one of the traces Sachsen had been pursuing for a long time. He had never expected to find it on an assassin from Azpen.
Sachsen stared at it in silence. He couldn't just let this slide. It was time for him to leave, if only for a short while.
‘A short while?’
Sachsen felt a strange sensation at the realization that he was taking his return for granted. Since when had he ever had a home or a sanctuary to return to? A place to come back to... what a luxury that was.
Regardless of his thoughts, he knew he would do his absolute best to return. For now, he still wanted to see what a man like Encrid would do. That man possessed a quality that made it impossible to look away.
‘I should at least tell him before I go.’
A simple report that he needed a brief leave of absence would suffice.
*
Encrid drifted in and out of sleep. Knowing better than anyone that eating and sleeping were the keys to recovery, he did exactly that.
Above all, whenever he opened his eyes, he was ravenous. His body, forged through the Isolation Technique, asserted its demands for recovery with overwhelming force.
The core of its demand was simple: hunger. He was incredibly, painfully hungry.
"Is there anything to eat?"
Those were the first words he uttered upon waking after nearly crossing death's door.
"Yes! Yes, please wait a moment!"
The disciplined medic guarding his side rushed out. When he returned, he held a bowl of thin porridge.
"I will feed you!"
"No need."
His arms were wrapped tightly in bandages, but he wasn't so helpless that he couldn't feed himself a bowl of porridge. He snatched the bowl and spoon, devouring the contents in an instant.
"You shouldn't eat so quickly," the medic fretted.
"I'm fine."
Even before acquiring the Isolation Technique, digesting food had been his specialty. If you wanted to survive as a mercenary, the ability to sleep and eat anywhere was essential. Lacking skill and stamina was a one-way ticket to an early grave.
But now? He felt like he could digest iron if he had to.
"Brother, eating well and shitting well are the basics of life."
The Isolation Technique was a method of forging the body. It wasn't just about building muscle to armor the exterior; it was a technique to govern the internal systems as well. That was why it included specific methods for nutrition and rest.
Encrid ate his fill and closed his eyes, intending to rest thoroughly. He spent his time in a cycle of eating and sleeping.
When he opened his eyes briefly, he saw Sachsen. The man's hair was matted with dried blood, and his expression was unreadable. The scent of dirt and iron pricked Encrid’s nose. He had wondered where Sachsen had vanished to after the battle; it seemed he had been busy.
"I need to leave for a short while," Sachsen said.
"Would you stay if I told you not to?" Encrid asked, his voice thick with sleep. It was idle curiosity, a question he wouldn't normally ask, but his mind was hazy.
Sachsen’s expression didn't flicker. I'm going, his silence said.
"Go on, then."
The squad members, Sachsen included, all had things they could not compromise on. Encrid didn't know what they were, but he respected them. They were his subordinates, but they were also the mentors who had guided him this far. He had built his "today" upon their techniques.
Meeting Sachsen’s eyes, Encrid added one more thing.
"Don't be late."
"I don't get lost."
It was a flat response, but it was a joke. Neither laughed, but the farewell was settled.
As Sachsen left, a wave of exhaustion washed over Encrid again.
"I'm sleeping."
"Yes."
When he next opened his eyes, Sachsen was gone. It had been dawn during their talk; now, the light had shifted. This time, Sinar was standing over him with a spoon.
"Ah."
The elf, possessing a beauty that felt out of place on a battlefield, expressionlessly held the spoon and urged him to open his mouth. She intended to feed him.
"Aren't you busy?" Encrid muttered. What was an elf doing playing nurse?
"My fiancé barely survived. I should at least do this much."
It was an elven joke. Encrid blinked, and finding it too bothersome to argue, he opened his mouth. Sinar slid the spoon in.
"Should I chew it for you first?"
"Why would you chew porridge for me?"
"It's the thought that counts."
"Elven society is surprisingly promiscuous."
"Is that an insult?"
"Not really."
"Only I am like this. And only to you."
Encrid was still getting used to elven humor. This was the extent of his adaptation.
"Should I prepare an elven meal for you next time?" Sinar asked, her face a mask of stone.
"What are the ingredients?" Encrid asked warily. Frok used to eat bugs.
"A green nutritional porridge packed with high-quality fiber."
"And the taste?"
"A taste of heaven, truly."
"I'll pass."
It sounded like a recipe for tongue-torture. Besides, he liked the porridge he was eating now. It had finely ground meat and onions, seasoned with rich spices. He wondered who had made it; the flavor was excellent.
He had been bedridden since the evening of his return. Encrid slept through most of the day. In the gaps, he saw Sachsen off, ate the porridge Sinar fed him, caught a glimpse of Ragna sleeping nearby, and listened to Dunchabel grumble during her visits.
"The fight was too dull this time. I can fight much better than that."
He had no idea why she was telling him this. He knew she could fight; he’d seen her get beaten up by Rem often enough.
"I'll do better next time," she emphasized.
It was a constant repetition of sleeping, eating, and resting. His body demanded recovery, and Encrid listened to its needs. Because his waking hours were so short, he had no time to review his battles. Occasionally, he wondered where Sachsen had gone, but he didn't dwell on it. If Sachsen wanted to share, he would.
Encrid focused entirely on his own health.
"Do you even do this sort of thing diligently?" a female soldier asked when he woke up briefly. Encrid blinked and searched his memory for her name.
"Helma."
Beside her stood the soldier who was a master of seasoning. The man was wrapped in bandages around his head and shoulder, likely injured in the fray. Next to him was another hesitant face.
"I mean, why did you hide your identity like that? It was a shock," Helma said, and the seasoning master nodded in agreement.
"I-I have committed a capital offense!" the third soldier suddenly cried out, slamming his head onto the ground. A small cloud of dust rose from the floor.
"What?"
"For running my mouth so carelessly to you..."
"Ah, forget it. It's in the past. You didn't know who I was, so technically, I was the one who deceived you."
"N-No, that's not true!"
Now he remembered—this was the talkative soldier. The one who had told him to step forward if he wanted to fight. Encrid dismissed the apology lightly. Instead, his gaze drifted to the bowl beside Helma. A savory aroma wafted toward him. He was hungry again.
‘Seriously, it feels like the god of beggars has taken up residence in my stomach.’
In reality, his body was simply demanding resources to replace the blood he had lost. He had developed a Regenerative Body, optimized for rapid healing. If Audin had seen this, he would have been proud.
“Brother, they say the ground hardens after the rain. Once you heal, you’ll be even tougher. Here, let me break your leg for you.”
Audin would have cracked a chilling joke like that without hesitation. The thought almost made Encrid smile. Every one of his squad members pretended to be stoic, but they were all dying to trade jokes with him.
Rem was the worst of them. What would that barbarian say if he saw him like this?
“Hey, does it hurt? Can I poke it?”
Encrid cursed Rem in his head for a crime the man hadn't even committed yet.
As he sat there with a blank face, Helma lifted the bowl. "Would you like some?"
Encrid opened his mouth reflexively. Only after the porridge hit his tongue did he wonder why he was letting her feed him when his arms worked fine. It was all Sinar’s fault for starting this strange habit. Still, it felt awkward to stop now.
As he took spoonful after spoonful, he noticed a different flavor. Softly cooked beans and savory meat.
"I put in thoroughly boiled chicken and beans," the seasoning master said. The man truly had a knack for cooking.
"It's delicious."
"Thank you." The soldier looked genuinely embarrassed.
"I want to feed you too!" the third soldier blurted out.
"Are you crazy?" Helma shut him down instantly. Good job, Helma.
Encrid’s waking moments were fleeting. After eating, the drowsiness returned.
"It was an honor," Helma said softly as he began to drift off. Encrid merely nodded.
"I'm going to apply for a transfer. I want to fight by your side," the talkative soldier added. Whether he did or not was his own business.
Just before sleep claimed him, he heard Ragna’s faint voice nearby.
"Won't anyone feed me?"
To which Helma replied, "Your arms look perfectly fine."
Actually, Encrid’s arms were fine too.
In his dream, Encrid was swinging a sword with his toes because he had no arms. Ragna appeared and asked why he was doing that, and he replied it was because he had no arms. It was a bizarre, nonsensical dream.
The cycle continued: sleep, wake, eat.
The next afternoon, Krais arrived with news: Azpen was retreating.
"That's good news."
"Well, we don't know if they'll try some other trick." Krais’s face was full of suspicion. He looked like a man who had just watched a thief run off with his Krona. Encrid didn't ask for details and went back to sleep.
After two full days of rest, he was finally able to move.
"Impressive."
Sinar was genuinely surprised to see him standing. Her expression remained stoic, but the flicker in her eyes betrayed her. What kind of constitution did he have to be upright already? It was an injury that would have killed an ordinary man, yet here he was. Was the elven ointment she’d given him truly that miraculous? She had heard of medicine made from holy water, but her secret method contained no divine power.
"Did you eat something special behind my back?"
"What are you talking about?"
Dismissing her nonsense, Encrid ignored her and checked his condition.
‘Let’s see.’
If his peak condition was a ten, he was currently at a five. He wasn't fully healed, but he no longer needed to be confined to a bed. He was starting to feel restless.