Chapter 471: It's All Rem's Fault
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 471: It's All Rem's Fault
The first thing that caught his eye was a group of children—three girls and a boy—playing with a rope made of twisted tree bark.
The three girls were playing together, while the boy seemed determined to make a nuisance of himself. He tripped one of the girls and immediately bolted.
"Stop it!"
The girl’s eyes flared with anger. She looked genuinely furious, wearing an expression much like the one the woman named Ayul had when she swung her axe at Rem.
The boy scrambled away as fast as his legs could carry him. He slipped between two large tents, moving with a nimble agility that showed he had spent his entire childhood running through these parts. His lean frame only made him look faster.
"Not even a velopter could drag that little brat away," the girl holding the rope muttered, glaring after him.
While most of the adults had patterns painted on their faces, the children’s skin was bare, making them look even cleaner. Of course, their youth also meant their skin was naturally clearer. Her dark brown eyes flashed fiercely against her sun-bronzed skin; she was clearly livid at having her game interrupted. Anyone who crossed her would likely end up with more than just a few scratches.
To Encrid, it was obvious the boy just wanted to play. Like most children his age, he was merely trying to get their attention with a mischievous prank.
Four men curing hides nearby watched the scene and laughed.
"Keep that up, and you're going to get something broken!"
"Don't run away, stand your ground, boy! You're better off just taking the beating now."
"If she catches you later, it'll hurt twice as bad!"
They were teasing him, yet to Encrid, their laughter carried a faint, underlying gloom.
The boy poked his head out from between the two large tents and retorted, "She has to catch me first!"
The adults teased him back, saying he couldn't run forever, but the boy ignored them completely.
As Encrid watched, he heard a low, rattling growl from behind. Naturally, he had sensed its approach long before.
"Hyah!"
A child riding a velopter trotted toward him. Encrid turned around to meet the gaze of the child riding the young, short velopter, its scales still soft and immature. Their eyes were nearly at the same level.
"Do not block the hero's path," the child declared.
Encrid obligingly stepped aside. Just then, a massive ox pulling a cart lumbered past, its back level with the child's eyes.
"Whoa, let's steer clear of this one." The child patted the velopter's neck to steer it away from the ox.
The velopter sidestepped. It was a fully grown beast, massive enough to crush an ordinary human if it charged, but its bright, gentle eyes suggested it was unlikely to lose its temper. The man leading the ox also paused to let the child pass.
Many other sights caught Encrid's eye. A woman carrying a woven wooden basket on her back, likely filled with harvested herbs. A man drying grass. An old man shaving a long pole with a utility knife, crafting something. A one-armed man, one sleeve hanging empty, was entirely absorbed in sewing, using his foot to hold the leather steady.
"It's peaceful," Encrid remarked, taking in his surroundings.
Though a faint gloom hung in the air, the place was overall brimming with life.
"I told you it was a good place," Rem replied from beside him.
Indeed, he had. He had said that while it wasn't prosperous, it was peaceful. It looked that way to Encrid as well—a pastoral scene, thick with the simple, warm scent of rustic life.
Baa.
Sheep bleated.
Moo.
Oxen lowed.
He saw a few horses, but they were all short-legged and thick-bodied—a breed clearly meant for hauling heavy loads rather than speed. Perhaps only pack horses had survived because they had no need for cavalry. He had heard that while wild horses existed in the West, the people here rarely bothered to tame and ride them.
Tents lined the area, but there were open clearings scattered throughout. They were standing in one of them now. A dozen or so velopters rested on their short forelegs, their heads buried in wooden buckets as they fed. These were the mounts of the Westerners.
One of them stared at Encrid with curious, vertically slit eyes. It let out a low, rattling click, its scales shifting. Being cold-blooded, they would perish if the temperature dropped too low. That was why velopters could only be found in this region.
The West was a land that never saw snow, making it generally warm—or rather, hot. Even now, the heat was enough to make sweat drip, though a breeze in the shade was enough to cool one down.
Yet, not everyone wore a content expression. While the one-armed man wiped his brow with a grin, a woman passing right in front of him looked utterly miserable. She had grey eyes and short grey hair, a coloration strikingly similar to Rem's. She carried a basket of grass, walking with an incredibly solemn expression.
The three girls from earlier happened to be in her path, unintentionally blocking her way.
"Move," the woman muttered quietly, trudging past. Her gaze was fixed on some distant point, as if she were looking right through them. She almost seemed possessed.
In the direction she was heading, a plume of grey smoke was rising. Once she passed, the three girls glanced at each other warily before quickly returning to their game, their laughter ringing out once more. They seemed to have a set of rules for jumping over the long rope they held, completely absorbed in the fun.
There were tents, people, and plenty of folks busy with various chores. Looking around, most of them shared a similar appearance. Their lean, wire-drawn muscles—the result of constant physical labor and a sparse diet—gave them a uniform look.
Signs of scarcity were everywhere. Torn tents, meager supplies—things obvious at a single glance. Yet, while some faces bore traces of worry, most of the people seemed to enjoy their own quiet happiness.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" Rem asked.
Encrid remained silent, lost in thought. For some reason, he thought of Oara. In her city, she had wished for nothing more than to see happy children running and playing. This place was exactly what she had envisioned. Lacking in resources, yet content.
Seeing this, he understood why Rem had called these people boring.
Because they savor their lives as they are.
They were satisfied with the present. That was simply their nature. Even though a group of obvious outsiders was standing in the middle of their clearing, no one paid them much attention. Only a few passersby spared them a brief glance. At most, a few children stared from a distance, fascinated by the sight of Frok.
"It's a frog!"
"A frog-man!"
They had clearly never seen a Frok before. Fortunately, Frok did not consider himself a frog, nor did he take offense at their words. Generally speaking, the Frok kin rarely caused trouble unless it concerned their personal goals or someone mentioned the word "heart."
All of these elements blended together to create a peculiar atmosphere. It was a life of contentment rather than progress—or perhaps, more accurately, a tendency to simply go with the flow. Encrid felt that passive acceptance radiating from the entire nomadic city.
Not that he found it unpleasant. Rem had warned him that he might find it off-putting, but one could not force their own values or way of life onto others. Just as one respected another's dreams, he believed their way of living deserved respect as well.
After all, wasn't that what life was about? Everyone was similar yet different, and different yet similar. There was no reason to reject differences born of geography, ethnicity, or tradition.
Besides, it wasn't as if everyone here was exactly the same. Rem was living proof of that. Surely, there had to be others who possessed a drive to move forward.
"Who is it? Who's here?"
Occasionally, some would call out to them. Naturally, many recognized Rem.
"Wait, is that Rem?"
"The real Rem, not an impersonator?"
"I thought Rem was dead."
"Didn't Ayul say he died? No, wait, didn't she say she killed him?"
That last remark was particularly striking. It came from a man with grey eyes similar to Rem's, though much lighter in shade. Rem's wife, Ayul, nodded in response.
"I'll kill him soon."
She sounded entirely serious, which made it rather chilling.
"What kind of rumors have you been spreading?" Rem grumbled.
At his words, Ayul smiled for the first time. The smirk, curling up only on one side of her mouth, went beyond chilling—it carried a deeply ominous vibe. It triggered everyone's survival instincts.
"This is all Rem's fault," Luagarne remarked. Had she always been this quick to shift blame?
"Indeed," Dunchabel agreed.
"Apologize, Rem," Encrid added without missing a beat.
By all indications, Ayul held significant sway in this place. If they weren't careful, they might not even get a single scrap of meat to eat after coming all this way. If she told them to get lost, they would have no choice but to leave. It didn't seem like anyone would pay the slightest bit of attention to Rem's protests anyway.
"...Do you people even know what you're talking about?" Rem asked, looking back at them in sheer disbelief.
We don't. But it's your fault. Unquestionably.
Encrid conveyed his firm conviction with a silent stare.
"At least you have some backbone," Ayul said, showing a hint of approval.
Thanks to Rem, their first impression had been terrible, but they had managed to salvage it slightly. Seeing them side with Ayul, Rem muttered under his breath, "Risking my life to fight was all for nothing."
Taking advantage of the slightly softened atmosphere, Encrid whispered to Rem, "Go beg for forgiveness. Bow your head once every three steps."
"Why don't you just shut up and wait?" Rem snapped with genuine irritation, so Encrid decided not to push it any further.
"I need to go see the chief, so wait here," Rem said, catching his breath. His expression was far lighter now than when he had been facing Ayul. Meeting the chief didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.
Encrid recalled Rem's anxiety about returning to the West. He had been worrying solely about facing his wife.
"Go ahead," Encrid replied.
Juol stepped forward and pointed them toward a resting place—a tent tucked away in a corner. In the West, where a floor-seating culture prevailed, people sat on wide sheets of fabric spread over the ground rather than on chairs. The inside of the tent was lined with just such a cloth.
"You can rest here," Juol said.
Encrid nodded. The floor, stuffed with thick cotton, was surprisingly soft. Encrid set his backpack down in a corner. It was a heavy pack, loaded with a thick cloak, wooden bowls, utensils, and various other supplies. Setting it down made his shoulders feel instantly lighter.
The sudden lightness made him itch to move. He had pondered many things on the journey, and his battle with the giant had left him on the verge of grasping something elusive.
As he stood up, gripped his sword, and headed out of the tent, Dunchabel called out from behind him, "Where are you going?"
"To loosen up."
"Ask them what that smell is later. What kind of grass are they burning? It's getting on my nerves."
Such was the complaint of a beastman with a sensitive nose. Encrid nodded and retorted, "Doesn't the smell coming from your own body bother you?"
"Actually, it's rather stimulating once you get used to it."
Encrid nearly raised a hand to strike her before catching himself. His right hand had risen halfway, while his left hand rested on the gladius hanging from his sword belt. He exercised self-control and froze. What was patience, if not the will to endure?
Encrid's willpower shone through once again. He had almost reacted like Rem for a split second, but it wasn't entirely his fault. Dunchabel's provocations had a way of evaporating every shred of reason in a person's mind. What made it even more infuriating was that she never did it on purpose.
"Let it go. If beatings could make her listen, she would have started listening a long time ago," Luagarne said, offering her characteristic Frok insight. Having remained unbroken despite Rem's frequent physical corrections, Dunchabel could be considered unmatched in sheer stubbornness.
"I know," Encrid replied.
As he stepped outside, Luagarne followed him. Standing in front of the tent, he began to swing his sword to clear his mind.
Whoosh, swish, whoosh, swish.
Once slowly, once quickly. He repeated the cycle. He had seen enough of his surroundings, and the large tents blocked his view anyway, leaving nothing else to look at. The curious glances that had been directed at them earlier had also vanished. Aside from the children and those too absorbed in their chores, everyone had spared them a passing glance, but none showed any lasting interest.
With each swing of his sword, Encrid turned his focus inward. Today, through endless repetition, he reflected on what he had learned from watching Oara. He reviewed and analyzed those lessons, along with the experience he had gained from fighting the giant.
"If you only fight in real battles, your balance will subtly warp and your posture will break down without you even realizing it. That's why you must never neglect your daily training."
Those were the words of a mercenary dedicated to his training. It was a sentiment shared by almost every instructor Encrid had ever met at the training halls.
"Of course. Your daily training is what manifests unconsciously in battle," Luagarne agreed, nodding.
Ragna, Rem, Sachsen, and Audin had all said similar things. Not that their advice had been particularly helpful. Ragna had insulted the very concept of 'training' by claiming that swinging a sword three or four times a day was plenty. Sachsen had indirectly called everyone else stupid by asserting that if you trained in your mind, replicating it with your body was easy. Rem had simply told him to swing however he felt like, making Encrid acutely aware of the vast gulf in their natural talent.
Audin, at least, had emphasized training. The Isolation Technique he taught was built entirely on a foundation of daily practice. It wasn't that Audin lacked talent; he simply never ceased honing his body.
Just thinking about that training—the Isolation Technique—made Encrid feel a sudden wave of nausea. He remembered when he first started learning it, practicing three times a day—morning, noon, and night.
Was it called the Three-Times-a-Day Technique?
Doing it three times a day had left his body in agonizing pain, as if he were on the verge of death. He had barely been able to lift a finger. Yet, if anyone asked if he resented Audin, Encrid would shake his head. It was because of that grueling process, those arduous days combined, that he now possessed the strength to swing his sword like this.
"I hear you came with Rem?"
At the sound of the voice, Encrid emerged from his state of deep focus. He hadn't submerged himself as deeply as he sometimes did; it was just that when he trained using Single-Point Focus, he occasionally became entirely absorbed. His mind would wander while his body continued its movements automatically.
Naturally, he had sensed the approaching presence. He had simply ignored it because there was no malice or fighting spirit behind it.
Encrid looked up. A middle-aged woman stood before him. She held a long, pipe-like stick, drawing from it before puffing out a cloud of smoke. It was tobacco, and the smoke carried a sharp, pungent scent.
"Is someone burning something?" Dunchabel, with her keen sense of smell, poked her head out of the tent and asked.
Instead of answering, Encrid looked at the two Westerners standing behind the woman. They had brown hair and identical features—twins.
"You wanted to spar? Rem told us, so we came."
Another puff of smoke drifted past his face, bitter and sharp. Yet, beneath it, Encrid caught a faint, sweet aroma. Whether it was actually there or just his imagination, he couldn't be sure, but he sensed it nonetheless.
His sparring partners had arrived. Which meant they were likely some of the finest fighters the West had to offer. Even a glance told him they were no amateurs. Looking at them, he felt as if he could practically smell the sweet scent of a good challenge.
"But do you really want to spar?" the middle-aged woman asked.
Encrid nodded. It was a question that required no verbal answer.