Chapter 483: Reckless Serenity
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 483: Reckless Serenity
The West was vast. Beyond the six major tribes, there were those who clung to their traditions—or perhaps their stubbornness.
The person the Short-Haired Blonde had met in the City of Oara was one of them.
Though there was only one, Rem also knew someone from their ranks.
That friend, who possessed a restless wanderlust and dealt in sorcery poison, was the very person the Short-Haired Blonde had spoken of.
"Didn't you say it would be trouble if you left traces everywhere? And yet, you went and left sorcery poison behind?"
Rem had plucked flowers and tracked the giants' trails, and in the process, he had found his friend from the minority tribe.
"How did you know?"
Her dark eyes asked the question. There was no wariness in them—only pure curiosity. She had always been this way.
With the mountain slope as their boundary, Rem stood below while she stood above.
Shouldn't she have been surprised to see him back in the West so soon? Then again, she wasn't the type to care about such things. She might not even have known he had left in the first place.
"Just happened to," Rem replied nonchalantly.
The dark eyes blinked a few times. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, but her personality and purpose in life likely hadn't changed. She had once said she enjoyed lingering like a ghost, watching and observing people from the shadows.
She was a friend who found nothing more entertaining than watching how people lived, yet she absolutely loathed getting involved.
As her long, loose hair fluttered in the wind, she pulled out a string and tied it back tightly, looking slightly annoyed by the breeze.
"It's not like there's anyone else who uses sorcery poison. If I see it, it's obvious who's responsible."
It was a series of coincidences.
The minority tribes, including this friend, did not desire interaction with outsiders. They upheld a tradition based on the belief that isolation was the only way to preserve their unique energy.
Yet, an oddball had been born among such a people.
Someone who, while gazing at the stars in the night sky, had begun to observe other tribes, eventually wandering all the way to the pioneer lands. This woman believed that her tribe would wither if they remained shut away. There was a grand cause to her belief, mixed with her own selfish desires.
"Stagnant water rots," was her argument. Beneath it lay a deep-seated desire to observe humanity.
In the past, Rem had dismissed their so-called traditions as nonsense. They claimed that merely speaking with outsiders would corrupt their spirit. They believed that if their words and thoughts mingled with others, they would lose their sorcery power, and that only a woman who had never held a man's hand could become a shrine maiden.
It was all nonsense. Sorcery did not work that way.
Yet, conversely, such a lifestyle might actually make their sorcery stronger—simply because they believed and prayed with such absolute conviction. They performed their rituals based on that unwavering faith.
Though they all worshipped the Sky God born from the Birch Tree, their ways of life were vastly different. That was just who they were.
So, should they be criticized? Should they be condemned? Should they be told to change their way of life, cursed at, and dragged out into the world by force?
There was no reason to do so.
They weren't harming anyone; they just wanted to live quietly among themselves. If anything, other tribes were the ones who targeted and attacked them for their energy. They themselves desired no interaction whatsoever. In other words, they did not want conflict.
Even the oddball, despite claiming her tribe would rot if they remained isolated, didn't actually do much about it. She just occasionally went out to sightsee the outside world.
"You went far this time," Rem remarked again.
The dark-eyed woman—the one Rem called an oddball—opened her mouth without hesitation. This was neither a secret nor a resolved matter.
"Before three summers had passed, a madman targeted our tribe's offering. We lost a portion of it then, so I went out to retrieve it."
Those who wielded sorcery poison were highly skilled. Even Rem couldn't fight their entire tribe alone.
And what exactly was this "offering"? It was a fragment of the god they worshipped. In continental terms, it was practically a holy relic. Regardless of tradition, energy, or spirit, if that was touched, even they would be forced to interact with the world.
An interaction called battle and war.
But what kind of madman had targeted it?
The oddball was an observer looking in from the outside. As such, she must have seen and heard things. Rem figured she might know more than the Narae or the other tribes who had taken direct hits.
He hadn't come to ask her to help them fight. Yet, she too was sharpening her blade, saying they had been targeted as well.
No, this was where it had started. They had been hit first.
"It was a stranger from the continent—a mage."
Rem pieced together what he knew. He gathered the fragments floating in his mind to form a single picture, tracing the mastermind behind these events. He hadn't worked tirelessly at it; it was closer to him simply refusing to take things lying down, seeking them out out of sheer curiosity about which bastard had done it.
He had a rough idea of the culprit's location and could guess his intentions.
"Want to go beat down the bastard who took your offering?" Rem had asked.
"We also know the location. But if we fight, we will lose."
Since they had already fought once and their shrine maiden had lost an arm, that said it all. In this tribe, the shrine maiden served as both the chief and the eldest shaman.
"Retrieving the offering is important, but we could not sacrifice the entire tribe for it," she said.
A cold, blue light flickered in her eyes.
Pay back what you receive. That was the way of most Westerners. The minority tribes were no different. If anything, they were even more extreme.
"Fine. Then join us when we fight. Take your offering back then."
That was what he had told her.
* * *
Snapping back to the present, Rem deflected an incoming club with his left-hand axe and slashed horizontally with his right.
Thud, squelch!
The giant's club was parried away by his left axe, while his right blade sliced clean through the giant's shin, splitting the flesh wide open as purple blood spurted out.
I suppose I could have just found it and brought it to her myself, Rem thought as he leaped to the side.
Thud!
The club slammed down, sending stone fragments flying. The ground before the gorge was covered in gravel, rocks, and sand. The giant's monstrous strength struck the earth, leaving a deep crater.
Giants possessed incredible strength, but it was useless if they couldn't land a hit. Honestly, even clashing head-on wouldn't have been a problem.
I can just deflect it.
To an onlooker, it would seem like a succession of crises. Charging headlong into a crowd of giants all by himself—no matter how strong Rem was, even as a hero candidate, this was too reckless. It looked like someone walking naked into a raging storm.
Yet, Rem himself was perfectly calm. Compared to facing the Ten Thousand Wraiths, this was easy.
Whoosh!
A giant's club came crashing down from above. Every single one of their clubs was dark brown, though who had crafted them remained a mystery. Equipping them with uniform armaments would have cost far more krona than one might think.
Which meant someone had supplied them with these weapons.
Facing the falling club, Rem raised the axe in his left hand, bent his knees slightly, and leaned his upper body forward.
Boom!
A deafening roar erupted. It looked as though Rem would be crushed into a bloody pulp on the spot.
Naturally, no such thing happened.
The giant's swinging club ground to a halt mid-descent. Rem braced his left forearm and held his ground, drawing upon his Heart of Monstrous Strength. More precisely, he deflected the giant's force using the elasticity of his entire body, starting from his knees.
He absorbed the impact fluidly, grounding the force into the earth. His elbows, shoulders, waist, knees, and ankles—each part of his body, wrapped in flexible muscle, distributed and dispersed the force perfectly.
In the past, he would have relied on brute strength alone to block it, but not anymore. He had grown seasoned and adept. His technique had improved significantly; his tactical horizons had broadened. At any rate, his skills had grown by leaps and bounds compared to when he had first left the West.
Creeeeak!
Cracks spread vertically along the club, originating from where the axe blade made contact. Without losing momentum, Rem dashed forward.
Riiiiiip!
The club split apart along the path of the axe in his left hand. Startled, the giant kicked out at Rem.
Rem pressed the axe in his right hand forward to block and immediately transitioned to his next move. Shrugging off the club with his left hand, he pressed his axe blade against the giant's ankle—which felt agonizingly slow compared to Encrid's sword—and spun in a full circle.
Screeech!
A giant's skin was tough enough to withstand ordinary blade strikes, but Rem's axe sliced and tore through it effortlessly. Purple blood sprayed violently. The half-severed ankle gave way, and the giant collapsed with a heavy thud, a pool of blood quickly forming on the ground.
Roaaar!
The giant roared like a wild beast. Yet, its eyes remained unchanged—unfocused pupils. It had been strange from the very beginning. There was no thought behind the giant's eyes. They looked drugged.
They were different from the ones he had fought when he first entered the West. Or were they the same? Those bastards hadn't looked normal either. Then again, what did it matter?
Despite shrieking in pain, the giant flailed its hand. Rem parried the incoming blow with his left-hand axe once more.
Clang!
When the axe blade shattered under the strain, Rem threw the broken weapon like a javelin without a moment's hesitation. Though the broken shaft had a sharp, jagged edge, it would be difficult to pierce a giant's hide with it—but it was more than enough to gouge out an eye. He aimed straight for the socket.
Thwack! The broken handle flew through the air and pierced the giant's eye.
Screeech!
The giant shrieked in agony once more. Clear fluid and purple blood mingled, splattering onto the ground.
"Axe."
Rem reached his hand backward as he spoke.
There was a warrior who had come carrying axes dangling all over his body solely for this purpose. In a knightly order, he would be a squire—a role dedicated to handling chores and supporting combat. Here, they called him a small warrior.
At first, the small warrior had wondered why he was told to carry so many axes, but now he understood. Weapons capable of withstanding Rem's raw power were hard to come by.
"Hup!"
With a shout, the small warrior hurled an axe. Spinning through the air, the weapon flew straight into Rem's waiting hand.
Catch.
Gripping the axe, Rem cracked his neck from side to side.
"Keep your eyes open, will you?"
None of the giants answered. Knowing no fear, they felt no hesitation. Such was the nature of this giant horde. Round pupils set in wide whites, mostly dark brown and completely unfocused. Hazy. Showing only a blind will to slaughter, their eyes held nothing but murderous intent.
Staring directly into those eyes would make anyone's knees buckle, but not Rem's. His lips curled into a smirk.
"Fucking bastards."
Rem rested the axe over his shoulder. There was not a shred of urgency in him. He was completely at ease.
Meanwhile, Encrid slashed at the mage repeatedly.
"Y-You..."
"You bas—"
"M-Mage..."
"You son of a—"
The enemy mage seemed to be afflicted by a curse that prevented him from speaking, or perhaps he was simply too terrified to form a sentence. Encrid paid him no mind, relentlessly pursuing and targeting him.
A relentless barrage of sword strikes ensued. It was a ceaseless onslaught, reminiscent of Oara's linking sword. Seeing this, the others nearby tried to step in. They joined hands, attempting to cast sorcery.
Crack!
But a whip lashed out over their heads. It was Frok's.
"So, you are all cultists."
Frok's tone was calm, but it held a cold flame. A quiet, simmering rage.
"Ltir, your enemies are many here."
Muttering words no one else could understand, Luagarne charged into the crowd of humans, whip and sword in hand.
Even while fighting, Rem kept casting quick glances around to assess the situation. This meant he was watching Luagarne's battle as well.
Their faces were familiar. Though a few elves were mixed in, the rest were mostly bastards he recognized. They were cannibals—bastards who adhered to the insane tradition that eating human flesh would transfer the victim's strength to them.
They were also the very ones whose skulls Rem had joyfully split open before he left. It wasn't particularly surprising that they had sided with the enemy. No, to be honest, they might not have had a choice. After all, the man who was supposed to become the champion of the cannibal tribe had his skull split by Rem's axe.
They must have been kicked around afterward, and what if a cultist had approached them just then? So, in a way, all of this might have been Rem's fault.
Not that Rem felt any pangs of conscience. One could find an excuse for everything that happened in the world. Conversely, some things just happened, making it hard to assign a specific reason. It all depended on one's mindset. It was a matter of perspective. Therefore, just because something happened didn't mean he had to take responsibility for all of it.
It was a chaotic brawl, yet at the same time, it wasn't—because there were so few people actually participating in the melee.
While Luagarne fought with her cheeks puffed out, half-crazed at the sight of the cultists, a beastman went wild to Rem's right. She slashed at a giant's wrists and forearms with her twin scimitars, then, on some whim, lunged into the giant's embrace and sliced vertically beneath its chin.
She struck and retreated in a flash. Slipping in with a swift step, she delivered a clean slash and stepped back. A long trail of purple blood followed Dunchabel's movements. Her footwork seemed noticeably faster than before.
"Cultists!" Luagarne's shout rang out. "I have realized! Just as one swings a sword every day, if I kill you one by one, this will eventually end!"
It was a cry filled with a deep, resentful resolve. Rem wondered what had suddenly gotten into the Frok, but as long as she fought well, that was all that mattered.
Clink.
He tapped the blades of his axes together. Rem thought about pumping himself up, but decided against it. There had to be some danger or these bastards had to be fierce for him to fight with his life on the line. Still, these were the bastards who had threatened his wife and family back home. If Ayul had died, Rem would have lost his mind and gone on a rampage.
"Not a single one of you gets past me."
Rem was about to say those words, but he held his tongue. The atmosphere didn't suit it at all. The giant horde was completely out of their minds. Normally, they would have needed orders, but they were in no position to receive any. Thus, the giants targeted only the single human and the single beastman who had dared to attack them.
Geomnarae was about to step forward, but stopped. To his eyes, the beginning had been sudden, but what followed was... well, serene. It made no sense, but that was how it felt.
It could be described as reckless yet serene. The words didn't seem to fit, but they did. That was how the battlefield flowed.
Encrid was dealing with the mage, and Luagarne was tearing through the crowd gathered around them. Rem's performance was astonishing just to watch. Geomnarae knew Rem was a good fighter—he was a hero candidate, after all—but was he always this good?
Geomnarae was dumbfounded. Still, he couldn't just stand by and do nothing, so he raised his hand.
"Are you just going to watch?!"
Shouting to the tribal alliance standing behind him, Geomnarae pulled out a totem. It was a wooden carving in the shape of a wolf's head, blackened with grime from years of handling. Holding it high, Geomnarae prayed.
O Wolf God, O Wolf God.
Descend upon this place and tear them all to pieces.
Friend of the white ears, the dark eyes, and the Dawn Bird.
Purple veins bulged along Geomnarae's forearm. Pain surged through his entire body. Gritting his teeth to endure it, he cast his sorcery.
It was the spell known as Descent of the Spirit.