Chapter 705: Information is Everything
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 705: Information is Everything
The herbs from Milestia’s treatment room were gathered in haste.
Since they belonged to someone now dead and gone, they were technically keepsakes—items that might have held sentimental value under different circumstances. But right now, they were in no position to be picky. Mourning the dead would have to wait until the crisis had passed.
Hoarding resources in the face of a catastrophe was something only a complete and utter fool would do.
Some of the moisture-tolerant herbs were left soaked by the rain, while the delicate ones were wrapped tightly in oiled cloaks. Encrid could recognize three of the species at best. This was despite the fact that he had survived countless battlefields and knew his way around basic first aid.
In truth, most remedies known to soldiers and mercenaries were unproven folk medicine passed down through word of mouth. It was common to see men spitting on a cut, fueled by the blind belief that saliva prevented a wound from rotting.
There were many herbs here whose shapes looked familiar but whose names he didn't know, and others were so drenched by the storm that their forms were barely recognizable.
"Give them all to me."
Anne climbed the stairs and spread the plants across the hallway floor. She placed her usual bag beside her and began sorting the haul. There was no hesitation in her movements; she identified each herb at a glance, her hands moving with blurring speed. Behind her, Ragna stood in silent vigil.
Everyone, including the Patriarch, watched Anne’s hands in silence.
Though a few showed signs of anxiety, most remained calm. Part of it was because the members of Zaun were naturally thick-skinned, but the primary reason was the Patriarch. He served as their anchor. He had casually pulled up a chair, removed his wet boots to knock the water out of them, and was now staring listlessly out the window.
Whoosh! Crash!
Amidst the roaring storm and the crashing thunder, a symphony of thuds, taps, squishes, and grinds filled the hallway. It was the sound of Anne crushing herbs in a small mortar, blending them with various medicinal extracts. Having finished the sorting in record time, she was already deep into the preparation.
Soon after, Anahera carried Grida in and laid her down. Grida wasn't limp or unconscious; though her face was deathly pale from blood loss, her eyes burned with a vivid intensity. She didn't let out a single groan as she was placed on the floor, enduring the agony with sheer grit.
"I leave her to you," the giantess said.
Without looking up, Anne gave a clipped reply. "Got it."
Though it sounded dismissive, no one took offense. Anne immediately slid her knife under the bandage wrapped around Grida’s abdomen and sliced it open in one smooth motion. Her hand didn't waver—a level of precision that rivaled Ragna’s own bladework.
After examining the wound, Anne uncapped a metal vial and poured a potion over the injury.
Fizzzzz!
Bubbles frothed against Grida’s skin, and her body shuddered. Several onlookers watched with bated breath. Is that really okay? Their gazes were thick with suspicion.
Anne ignored them. Once the foam subsided, she handed another vial to Ragna. "Pour this."
As Ragna complied, Anne soaked her hands in the liquid while holding a needle and thread. The liquid on her skin evaporated instantly into the air. Then, threading the needle, she began to stitch the wound.
It was Encrid’s first time seeing such a method, and his first time witnessing the true depth of Anne’s skill.
The needle pierced the flesh. Was it less painful than being stabbed by a sword? Hescal had driven a blade into her abdomen in a sudden, treacherous strike, but now she had to watch as a needle methodically knit her own flesh back together. A sword strike was over in an instant; this pain was a slow, continuous crawl.
Yet, Grida endured it. Her eyebrows twitched with every stitch, but she didn't scream. Judging by her words, she seemed more enraged by the situation than the physical trauma.
"I suspected Father... so should I be relieved it wasn't him?" she muttered, staring at the ceiling. "Damn it. I still feel like I’ve been played."
"And you didn't suspect Hescal?"
The Patriarch turned his gaze from the window, looked at Grida once, and then returned to his watch. Encrid was becoming familiar with the Patriarch’s mannerisms. He thought he understood why the man kept his eyes glued to the storm outside.
Beside them, Alexandra was explaining the situation to Schmidt. The more Schmidt heard, the grimmer his expression became.
"I did suspect him," Grida admitted honestly. "I was prepared, but he still caught me off guard."
She wasn't lacking in competitive spirit; she simply cared more about what came next than the fact that she had lost a single exchange. The Guardians of Zaun were those who always looked toward tomorrow.
Only now did Encrid truly grasp the concept of a 'Guardian.'
Which was precisely why he couldn't comprehend Hescal’s actions. Grida’s behavior aligned perfectly with the nature of a Guardian. But Hescal? He was a man who had lived as a Guardian of Zaun for decades. Why would such a man suddenly throw it all away?
Not my concern.
Encrid was a knight, not a detective. His duty was clear. Finding out the 'why' could be done later—by putting a blade to the man's throat and demanding answers.
Is there any faster or more efficient way?
None. If the man refused to speak even then, no amount of psychological maneuvering would have worked anyway.
Encrid’s gaze drifted to the limping swordsman, Riley Zaun—Hescal’s child. His skill was at the level of an Associate Knight, and his deepest wish was to run proudly on two feet. Swordsmanship is inherently disadvantageous for the crippled, so he had honed his style to settle matches in a single strike, mastering techniques to move explosively on one leg.
All of that had been crafted for him by Hescal.
Perhaps the person most desperate for Hescal’s true intentions was Riley. Yet even he was in the dark. The faint anxiety on his face and his trembling pupils spoke volumes of his mental collapse.
Can he even fight like that?
If the mind is unsteady, the sword will waver. Had the Patriarch designated a role for Riley? Perhaps as a tool to shake Hescal’s focus? Would Hescal waver if the child he raised for a decade called out to him? Encrid didn't know.
He walked over to the Patriarch.
"It’s not that I’ve gotten weaker," Grida called out from the floor. "Hescal hid his strength. He was strong, Father."
The Patriarch gave a slow, acknowledging nod. Still, he remained an emotional void.
"Do you see anything?" Encrid asked, stepping up beside him.
The Patriarch was watching the perimeter because he knew Hescal wasn't acting alone. He suspected external interference. Others who were quick-witted were doing the same, while some sat with eyes closed, sharpening their focus like a blacksmith honing an edge.
Alexandra was the clearest example. After her brief talk with Schmidt, she leaned against the wall, regulating her breathing. Watching her was like looking at a blade wrapped in thin cloth—ready to be swung at a moment's notice.
"Nothing," the Patriarch replied.
Encrid was getting used to the brevity. Do not try to read his emotions; observe his actions exactly as they are.
Viewed through that lens, the Patriarch’s principles were simple. He used his stoicism as a shield, hiding his thoughts and leading opponents to ruin through misunderstanding. He had the temperament of a master schemer—a necessity for his position.
Zaun was essentially a small nation. The Patriarch was its king, and Hescal was the rebel leader.
Though many were listening, Encrid felt there was no longer any need for secrecy. The members of Zaun weren't the type to flee just because the odds were stacked against them. They needed to fight with full knowledge of the stakes.
"Where is Odinkar?" Encrid asked.
"He went into hiding under a pretext," the Patriarch answered immediately. He was clearly of the same mind—this was the time to clear away useless doubts. To fight properly, the mind had to be free of distractions.
"What about Magrun?"
"The boy was in real danger, so I left him with Milestia. Even I do not know his current location."
Shhhhh.
The rain had weakened. The wind, which had been strong enough to pluck men from the earth like weeds, had died down to a low howl, though it still rattled the window frames.
Encrid recalled Rynox’s report. "Jerry, Iven, Roist, and Pale—why were those four targeted?"
"They all have military experience," the Patriarch said.
Hescal was a calculating man. He wouldn't have targeted them at random. If he had risked exposure to harm them, there was a tactical reason.
Encrid looked around the room. It was filled with elite individuals—Rynox, Alexandra, the Patriarch. On the continent, any one of them could make a name for themselves. Even the distraught Riley possessed skill few could match.
However, they were individualists. They didn't know how to fight as a cohesive unit.
"Is there a demon involved?" Encrid asked. To target a group with more than five knight-level combatants, one needed overwhelming power.
"I do not know."
"Why not?"
"There are traces of the one who spread the disease, but I have never met him. We have pursued him for over twenty years as a persistent threat."
"They say the Hunter Village has turned against us. What is the greatest danger there?"
"We are trapped. They have undoubtedly laid traps across every exit."
The Patriarch answered calmly, and the room listened. They were trapped, infected, and being hunted by a mage who had been spreading plague for two decades. And in the midst of this, everyone with command experience had been neutralized.
Despite the grim reality, the swordsmen of Zaun didn't flinch.
"So, basically, we just have to kill everyone who attacks us, right?" Rynox the Destroyer chimed in. He was a man who acted on impulse, but when his home was threatened, his path was simple.
"If they come at us, we cut them down. Simple."
"A real battle? Good. My sword has been whining for blood every night. It was getting annoying."
"They stabbed Grida? They're all dead."
None of them lost their nerve. They were the breed whose fighting spirit only burned hotter in a crisis.
Information is everything.
Luagarne had said those words countless times. Her tactical brilliance was something no madman could ever match. Encrid had learned that lesson well. In any battle, nothing was more vital than knowing what the enemy wanted and what dangers the allies faced.
Now that he had faced the facts directly...
He felt that, perhaps, this wasn't much of a crisis after all.