Chapter 572: The Reason He Runs
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 572: The Reason He Runs
Five pursuers had been dispatched from the Holy Kingdom to hunt down the Saintess.
The core of the group consisted of three individuals: Crusader Alma, Priestess Shilma, and Inquisitor Bert.
The actual combat duties fell to Alma and his two disciples. Alma’s martial prowess was, quite simply, overwhelming. Naturally, the paladins represented the absolute peak of the Holy Order's military might, said to possess strength rivaling the greatest knights of the continent.
But that did not mean the Crusader Order was weak. Within their ranks were powerhouses who could stand toe-to-toe with any knight. Moreover, they carried the full backing of the Holy Order itself. That alone ensured the crusaders were treated with respect wherever they walked.
However, not all crusaders were created equal.
In the Order of the Holy Warriors of Abundance, those who had yet to prove their skills were not granted names; they were referred to simply as a specific master's disciple or a trainee warrior. Such was the case with Alma's two followers.
The lack of a name was symbolic. Upon dedicating oneself to the Holy Order, a warrior was to become like fallen fruit or autumn leaves—forgetting everything they had gained in the secular world to focus solely on serving God.
Therefore, receiving a name was proof of having received a baptismal name of Abundance. It was a sign that divine power dwelt within them and a testament to their proven strength. A crusader bearing the name Alma was a man who would be revered regardless of where he stood.
It was this very Alma who had embarked on this tedious pursuit, brought along under the pretext of preparing for any unforeseen circumstances that required overwhelming force.
"So, where is the Saintess?"
Alma's brow furrowed deeply. His scowl was a clear reflection of his foul mood.
In truth, he was beyond irritated. He was annoyed that he had to personally involve himself in such a trivial matter, and equally vexed that they had been forced to cross the border because the others couldn't resolve something so simple.
"Did you truly not know the Saint Child possessed such a talent?"
The priestess standing three paces away from Alma and his disciples asked the question. Her name was Shilma, the head of a fortress monastery. Although she found Alma's impatient nature distasteful, she was just as anxious as he was. For now, they shared the same goal.
They had to capture the Saintess as quickly as possible.
The man tasked with answering them felt the exact same pressure. Standing before Alma, his disciples, and Shilma was Bert. Though he possessed an ordinary appearance, the other two listened closely to his words. While Bert's combat abilities were nothing spectacular, he was a seasoned expert when it came to tracking.
He looked between Alma and Shilma before speaking.
"Yes, Brother Alma. By my estimation, we will capture her today. Priestess Shilma, after investigating the incident, I discovered she was raised from childhood by a mountain dweller—an Independent Ranger."
Alma's eyebrows twitched. He already loathed every aspect of this situation, and hearing unfamiliar terms only added to his irritation. Alma's two disciples warily watched his reaction.
Their master had been unable to satisfy his darker urges for several days now. Once the escaped Saintess was caught, she likely wouldn't be returning with her limbs intact. The disciples knew all too well that Alma’s tendencies were sadistic.
His favorite thing in the world was a heretic who resisted. To be precise, he loved breaking those who resisted. Their master had a hobby of shattering bones and crushing human bodies.
Bert caught the twitch of Alma's eyebrow and quickly added an explanation.
"They are also known as self-reliant combatants..."
Independent Rangers, or self-reliant combatants, was a term used by those knowledgeable in the ways of the wilds. Some scholars even called them Highlanders, claiming they were a different species entirely because their lifespans differed from ordinary humans.
In truth, most people simply called them Highlanders or mountain folk. The name stuck because they rarely left the mountains—specifically, their own territories.
Though the origin of the term was unknown, if those who adapted well to city life were "insiders," these people were the ultimate outsiders. Regardless of their origins, their very existence was peculiar. Even in a world overrun by monsters and demonic beasts, they lived in groups of three or four at most, and often completely alone.
They did not seek work, nor did they desire wealth. All they wanted was to continue living on their own land.
"Are you talking about Highlanders?" Shilma interrupted.
"Yes, that is correct," Bert said, reflexively caressing the brooch pinned to his chest. Holding the symbol of the seven grapes—the mark of the God of Abundance and a tribute to the seven martyrs—seemed to ease his anxiety slightly.
If this went wrong, even if he didn't die, he would undoubtedly suffer a massive loss of standing.
"Don't Highlanders have pale skin and eyes like beasts?" Shilma recalled reading that Highlanders had undergone a form of convergent evolution from living in the wild for so long. Something about eyes that could pierce the darkness without light.
Shilma had observed the Saintess closely for several months. Her eyes looked like those of any other human.
"She doesn't carry Highlander blood; it seems another mountain dweller raised her. Trained her, too."
That was Bert's conclusion. It was a guess, but one that hit close to the truth.
Highlanders were mountain experts and masters of tracking. They were never caught within their own territory, nor were they the type to be chased. They were masters of setting traps and snares. The reason Bert had changed the direction of his pursuit after gathering information was precisely because of the Saintess's background.
He, too, was an excellent tracker. Just like Encrid, he did not look at points, but at the line along which the fugitive moved.
Is she just running blindly?
Highlanders were creatures who laid hundreds of traps in their territory and lived by memorizing every single location. To them, tracking, fleeing, and hunting were daily life. Simply chasing her tail would surely result in losing her. If he only looked at the tracks she had already left behind, he would fail.
So Bert had hired locals to corner her and predicted her path. Had he known nothing, it would be different, but now he knew what kind of child the Saintess was. A monstrous mountain girl who, if she stayed in one place for just three days, would memorize the position of every single pebble—that was her true identity.
What if we lose her even after all this?
The fear of failure was the source of the anxiety creeping into Bert's heart. If that happened, he would have to return to where they first spotted her and search everything all over again. However, there would be no place for him in that search. He would be discarded.
She had to be caught here.
It's best to catch her here and get it over with.
He had no desire to climb the mountain where the Highlander who taught her lived. A Highlander fighting with traps, arrows, and poison was a monster on their own turf. Even the famous Glacier Rangers, the Guardians of the Glacier, were said to have reached their current state by learning Highlander techniques.
If it came to that, he was finished. The mission would be a failure, and he would have to break the news to Alma—a prospect he dreaded immensely.
Fortunately, he had the Krona to hire help, the martial force at his disposal, and the information to predict her movements. He had hired hunters well-versed in the local geography to guide them and brought along Priestess Shilma and Crusader Alma.
After passing through Felheim and taking up positions near the northern forest, Shilma offered a prayer and used a divine spell to conceal the group.
"Under the Lord's care, shield us for a moment from the eye of the sun."
The spell deepened the shadows shrouding them. That darkened area became their domain.
"As long as you do not step outside of it, she won't be able to detect us," Shilma said.
It was an invisible yet very real veil.
Alma waited with a face full of discontent. Merely incinerating the monsters they encountered on the way had not been enough to satisfy his bloodlust.
Bert was busy thinking about where the Saintess might head if she somehow slipped past them. He had to prepare for the worst-case scenario.
How much time had passed? He had been holding in even the urge to urinate, enduring the wait. Finally, seeing a shadow in the distance, Bert let out a sigh of relief.
As the shadow drew closer, her attire became visible. She wore a shabby cloak that reached down to her calves. Even without seeing her face, her identity was obvious.
It was the Saintess.
Thank goodness.
Bert felt genuinely grateful to the Saintess for walking right into their hands. Now he wouldn't have to prepare any excuses. Since the sun hadn't even begun to set, they would likely be able to have dinner inside a castle tonight. Tracking her down was the hard part; once they found her, there was nothing to worry about.
"Saint Child."
As Shilma spoke, the black veil—which no one but her had been able to perceive—faded and vanished.
Alma, his disciples, and Bert sensed the shift as the barrier disappeared. Since they only perceived it after it vanished, they had felt nothing more than a slight sense of incongruity before. The perception disruption spell had been lifted.
Shilma had recognized the target.
The Saintess replied, and they stood in confrontation. Alma saw no need to wait and gripped his war hammer. Just as his disciples had predicted, he intended to break both of the Saintess's legs before taking her back.
They said her divine power would heal her body naturally anyway, didn't they? A mere slip of a girl had managed to cause them this much trouble. Her sin was truly grave.
*
Encrid perceived the entire situation simply.
The north, the pursuers, the Saintess.
With those three factors recognized, he instantly established his objective.
"Run."
Basking in the autumn sunlight, he ran, ignoring hills and monsters alike. It would be nice to find tracks, but luck did not come so easily. Was there not a saying that if the head is simple, the feet must suffer?
Encrid readily accepted his own simplicity.
He pushed his legs until his heart and lungs burned. Sweat began to pour. Becoming a knight did not mean he had transcended his humanity; it was only natural that he grew short of breath. The only difference was that, compared to ordinary people, he could run for an absurdly long time.
Among knights who controlled their breathing with Will, some were capable of holding their breath underwater for over an hour.
Encrid kicked off the ground in a zigzag pattern, utilizing Strong Legs, the power of his sturdy limbs. Since he had no need to hold his breath right now, he exhaled freely and accelerated.
Boom!
The ground exploded each time he kicked off, leaving clear tracks in his wake. Wrong direction? The path? He didn't care. What he lacked in direction, he made up for with sheer speed.
"You will be exhausted by the time you actually fight," Sinar said, but he ignored her.
In truth, Encrid knew a much easier way. For instance, where would the crusaders go once they captured the Saintess? They would head to the nearest city for supplies. Snatching her then would be several times easier.
But he didn't want to do that. His mood resisted, and his intuition warned him. It was what he had felt when he saw the traces of split and incinerated monster heads.
"There is a nasty fellow among them," Sinar had said.
There were things one could tell just by looking at the traces of a battle. The presence of a relentless, ill-tempered fighter. Deutsch had mentioned a man who looked absolutely furious, and that the others seemed to be walking on eggshells around him.
An ill-tempered bastard belonging to the Holy Order who was enraged by this whole affair. Would such a man really wash his hands of it once he caught the Saintess?
Encrid thought not.
That was the sole reason he was running right now. If he let his feet suffer to make up for his simple head, he could lessen the pain someone else would have to endure. Especially if that someone was an innocent child.
With the facts understood, Encrid ran.
Bwooo—
A faint sound from afar brushed against his ears.
"Here."
Sinar pointed with her right index finger. She had found not only the sound but also footprints and traces of movement. It lay beyond a field of short, faded yellow grass. In the distance, a branch of the Gigant Mountains stretched out beneath a towering peak that reached the clouds.
She had found footprints, but only by thoroughly scanning the ground; they were faint traces that would have been easily overlooked by anyone else.
"It is a trace of holy power," Audin said, furrowing his brow.
Encrid didn't care about Audin's feelings. He simply forged ahead.
Boom!
He kicked off the ground. Clods of earth exploded behind him as Encrid's body pushed past its limits, closing the distance. Pitying the plight of the captured Saintess, he did not hesitate.
Arriving at the scene, he saw a child with a broken right leg swinging a short blade.
Whoosh. The blade sliced uselessly through the air, and a man standing in its path stepped back with a sneer.
Encrid saw it all.
Because the sound of his thunderous approach had already reached them, the five standing before the Saintess were on high alert. Trailing afterimages and elongated shadows, Encrid came to a halt.
Boom!
He didn't just stop. As he stomped his foot to halt his momentum, a cloud of dust billowed up, obscuring the view. Through the grit, a pair of blue eyes locked onto the five before him.
Up close, he saw that the child held a dagger in a reverse grip, her eyes calm and colorless. She was a child who hadn't uttered a single scream, even though her leg was clearly broken.
"Who are you?"
The man with the permanent scowl spoke.
Encrid believed that, if necessary, fists should speak before words. And so, he did just that.
This was even before Audin had arrived.
Encrid's foot pressed hard into the ground. His ankles and knees bent smoothly, then snapped straight in an instant. Because these movements were so fluid, despite the loud stomp, his body shot forward like a swallow diving for its prey.
His opponent—the scowling bastard—clumsily reacted. That alone was impressive.
Of course, that was the extent of his capabilities.
While the man raised his left arm as a shield and swung the hammer in his right hand, Encrid grabbed his face with his left hand, kicked the back of his heel, and introduced the back of the bastard's head to the dirt.
Slam!
The meeting was highly successful. The explosive crack that erupted from the man's skull proved as much.