The Forest Recluse
“Ah.”
Alasil's mouth fell open. No words came out.
Right in front of her, Marhal went flying sideways. Fortunately, there were no trees. He tumbled across the ground a few times before executing a perfect roll and springing back to his feet.
“What the hell was that?”
“Who knows?”
Marhal's evasive answer twisted the man's face in irritation.
“Why? I'm just throwing your own words right back at you. Guess you don't like the taste either, huh?”
Marhal had scrutinized the man's every action, word, tone, and inflection. He spoke the Pubguk tongue, but his accent wasn't from there. Untraceable origins. For Marhal not to recognize it meant it was either some rare dialect used by a tiny ethnic group or a mishmash of several languages. Tendencies like that didn't appear out of thin air.
Marhal put more weight into his hunch.
“Performer.”
There was a reaction. The man's lips quivered faintly, like an angry horse snorting.
“The Eternal Snow Mountains? Forest Hermits? Or some other minor group? Ah, the Forest Hermits, right?”
“I'll kill you.”
Even as he spat the words, the man couldn't move easily. His legs were stronger than his arms. His fists could shatter trees and drop superhumans in an instant. He'd clearly struck with his leg. Yet that man's arm was unscathed. His head hadn't exploded.
The sensation when leg met arm. It felt like kicking something harder than iron. That's why he hesitated to act rashly. He needed time. Time to gauge this man.
“I remember the Forest Hermits don't tolerate deviations. Did they exile you? Or with that power, did you kill them all? Killing people so cruelly... was it because their history was too precious to waste?”
The man's lips twitched. Marhal braced for defense.
The man vanished. Or so it seemed—his speed created that illusion. But to Marhal, it was everyday pace. A thief's step was twice as fast; when a thief sprinted flat-out, even Marhal struggled to track it with his eyes. The man was fast and strong, but blocking his attacks wasn't impossible.
The leather cord bound to Marhal's arm stirred. A treasure even Mar Silanatiell coveted. Made from the hide of a snake that had lived centuries, it held multiple powers. Tough enough to withstand an iron-cutting knight's strike, it could channel curses. It even moved at its master's will. Those who called it magic were wrong—it was the cord's innate ability, not Marhal's spell. It could partially counter even a thief's or hero's strikes. Marhal's ultimate shield.
The cord slithered from his arm to his leg, passing over shoulder, chest, and belly before coiling there.
The man kicked at Marhal's leg.
Bam!
He hadn't heard it on the first hit, but the sound was loud. Louder than slamming a drum with full force.
Marhal's body spun wildly in midair, balance shattered. His vision whirled. The man readied a follow-up, pressing his fist to his side in a simple motion. An unconscious habit. With that physique, adding such a pointless step wasted time better spent on a full-power swing.
'Someone who's thrown that exact punch thousands, millions of times.'
A motion etched into instinct by history. When history piled on, even meaningless actions gained meaning.
Marhal shielded his belly with the cord. A bare hit would've burst it like a water-filled pig bladder. Even one cord didn't feel secure enough. He summoned the feather pen from his sleeve with a gust of wind.
In the instant before the fist connected, the man's body froze. The punch lost its power, and the force bearing down on Marhal weakened.
Marhal twisted midair and landed cleanly. Even with the cord and Pen of Responsibility nullifying the impact, his gut throbbed. The silver lining: minor wounds healed on the spot.
Marhal faced two tasks. Subdue or kill this freak without sustaining injuries even Alasil couldn't heal.
'Tch. If only I could wear the crown.'
Marhal was the Paulownia Crown's master, but he couldn't don it at will. It symbolized the emperor. The dignity of a sovereign. Did imperial authority and majesty hold sway in a street brawl with thugs? No. They wouldn't stop even with an emperor in their face. Nor would an emperor stoop to wielding power over rabble.
To wear the Paulownia Crown required a stage worthy of it. Normally, Marhal could only borrow a fraction of its power. Not insignificant, but useless against this monster who wouldn't budge.
The man clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly.
“That power... it's not human history. Not magic either—relics? Whatever blocked my fist is a relic too. Who the hell are you?”
He eyed Marhal like some unidentified enigma. Marhal had seemed like an ordinary mage. Yet he wielded at least two relics capable of stopping him, and tracked movements no knight could.
The man was a performer cultivating karma among the Forest Hermits. Some there toyed with high knights one-handed. Not hero-level, but enough to shake a nation if they ventured out. Even they couldn't stop him. Helpless against fists that snapped trees and speed beyond human eyes.
By comparison, the man before him wasn't that impressive physically. Yet he tracked his moves perfectly and blocked his attacks. But what irked him more was...
“Figure it out yourself, right? So how'd a Pubguk native end up a Forest Hermit? Abandoned by your parents? Or did they ditch you because of your personality?”
That. The more they talked, the more his origins peeled back. The Forest Hermits were a secretive ascetic order, unknown to most. They devoted lifetimes to understanding and wielding karma, dying in seclusion without mingling in the world. Just knowing of them was shocking; this man spoke as if certain he was one. And even pinpointed his Pubguk birth.
Not magic. If it were karma-based insight, the man's inner power would've reacted. Something beyond karma, akin to magic. Wary of it, he held back.
“Impressive patience. The Forest Hermits wouldn't go down easy, after all. You waited for the right moment. When you could surely kill them. When the grandmaster—your parental figure—was away? Slaughtered the other performers, like family, in that gap. Killed the returning grandmaster with the power you gained, and made it here.”
“Shut your mouth!”
The man bent his knees. Marhal unleashed the feather pen. Once as he leaped, once midair, once as he fell powerless, again as he pushed off the ground. Finally, just before the strike landed.
The cord wrapped Marhal's hand. He blocked the man's fist. Cord absorbing shock plus his martial arts turned a killing blow into something barely manageable.
“Hit the mark, huh?”
“I'll kill you. Kill you and devour every bit of your karma.”
Black mist erupted from the man's body. The fog that sprayed everywhere coalesced into armor enveloping him.
“Get away!”
Alasil shouted urgently. Marhal was already using the Pen of Responsibility to widen the gap.
“Do you know what history is?”
“First off, that's demon magic. Can't you see me casting?”
“Demon mist erodes history. Touch it, and all your history gets corrupted—you become a demon. Don't let it touch you.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Oh, you know?”
How many times had he fought demons? Of course he knew. Mar likened demons to mold. Ever seen mold on bread? Leave a speck for days, and the whole loaf's a moldy mass. It spreads to nearby food and furniture. Demons were history's mold. They eroded history, turning targets into demons. Those new demons sought more history to erode, propagating the mold. That's how they devoured half the world, how all life fell to them. Why they were so strong.
Humans wielded special mysteries from life's trajectories. A demon devouring countless histories using freakish power? Nothing strange.
At Alasil's cry, the man's gaze shifted to her. Beneath her, Haribal was healing. Shattered arm, probably nasal bones too. Even priestly treatment meant years of recovery—yet it mended before their eyes.
“No ordinary nun. Wonder what your karma tastes like.”
“Try eating it if you can, you filthy traitor.”
Alasil's eyes sharpened. She knew the situation was hopeless. Escape? Impossible. You could see a galloping horse. But against a man moving too fast to track? Marhal killing him here was their only shot.
The man moved. Not toward Marhal—toward Alasil.
Marhal activated the pen. The man's body halted midair. The wind from his motion whipped her hair.
Alasil paled. A split-second later, and her head would've vanished from her neck.
The man spoke leisurely.
“You know it, right? That relic won't last much longer.”
“I'll kill you first and use you as fertilizer for it. Alasil, fall back a bit. Use a tree for cover.”
“O-okay.”
Alasil dragged Haribal behind a nearby tree. Marhal clicked his tongue inwardly. Each use of the Pen of Responsibility on the man tainted it slightly. Like mold creeping, the black mist eroded the pen's history.
'Still, this corrosion rate is off.'
It had held fine in the West. An emperor's relic carried heavy history—not easily tainted or stolen.
'His specialty, then.'
Demons' true terror lay in spreading like mold. But this mist didn't seem to corrupt nearby life into demons. Marhal's senses, sharper than anyone's for demon power, confirmed it. Likely specialized. Like a tiny mold devouring a massive loaf, this man devoured nearby history. Made it his own.
The Forest Hermits weren't one group. Multiple sects, collectively called Forest Hermits. Devouring one explained his karma and physique. But if that was all...
Killing him wouldn't be hard.