Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 146 - 146 - Acceptance, Recognition, Consent
Chapter 146 - Acceptance, Recognition, Consent
Krais tucked the rolled-up parchment back into his coat and spoke.
It was a rough path—an uneven, sloped rock trail that made breathing difficult. Still, it wasn't so bad that he couldn't talk.
"Rem, Rem is..."
Hoo.
He exhaled and wedged his foot into a gap between the rocks.
It felt a little precarious.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, a hand appeared—Enkrid's outstretched hand.
Grasping it, Krais pulled himself up.
Behind them, a massive rock formation stood like a natural shield.
Of all the paths they could have taken, they had chosen the roughest one.
Well, that made sense.
The fact that no arrows had come flying yet proved that their route was effective.
"Except for his personality, he might actually be a great soldier," Krais mused.
At his words, Enkrid, who had just stepped onto a rock and leaned slightly against another, turned his gaze toward him.
"If we're only talking about skill."
Enkrid started to say more but then shut his mouth.
Because if it was just about skill, 'great' wouldn't even begin to describe it.
What if Rem had a more easygoing personality?
Krais pressed the question again.
"He'll be fine, right?"
Even though it was his own plan, his unease stemmed from his nature.
Even when he spent his time idly, Krais would secretly stash his belongings near the barracks in case something happened.
He had probably hidden things all over the city too.
"You never know when the enemy might launch a surprise attack. If I hide this and die, I'd probably turn into a ghost out of sheer frustration."
There was no sign of an attack.
It was impossible, even.
"I just get anxious. That's all."
That was what the big-eyed soldier always said.
Yeah, that was understandable.
People were all different, after all.
Compared to Krais, Enkrid was probably the more easygoing one.
After staring at Krais for a moment, Enkrid finally answered his question.
"I said I'd let him handle it, so he'll handle it."
That was the kind of person Rem was.
If he wasn't involved, he wouldn't care.
But if he decided to do something, he would see it through.
'Will you learn it?'
Wasn't it the same when he was first taught Heart of the Beast?
Who else would so easily share their techniques?
'Watch closely. You'll learn it next time.'
It was the same when he showed his Heart of Monstrous Strength.
He said he would kill a giant, and he did.
Thinking back on it now...
'He really is something else.'
So he would do as he said.
Before leaving, what did he say again?
The difference between a hunter and a sniper?
And something else he added after that.
"I'll plant this in the head of every damned hawk."
Rem had tucked one of his own arrows into his belt and spoken those words.
So he would handle it.
"This won't be an easy place to hide," Finn noted ahead of them.
Until now, they had moved between rocks, keeping out of sight.
They had taken routes that concealed them from projectile weapons unless they could claim the higher ground.
It was a moment that reaffirmed just how skilled Finn was as a ranger.
Thanks to her, they had evaded detection so far.
But the moment when a ranger's skill could act as their shield had come to an end.
Enkrid quietly calculated the time.
It seemed about time for Rem to act.
They had been moving alongside the rocky mountain.
From here, if they descended to the left, they could rejoin the main unit and return.
"We just have to wait," Enkrid said.
Finn said nothing.
She could sense something in the way these men interacted—a kind of unspoken bond.
Enkrid's words carried a deep trust that Rem, who had vanished alone into the thicket, would handle things on his own.
And the others?
Aside from Andrew and Mac, the rest seemed completely at ease.
"Oh Lord, who delights in His people, We have sent a disciple to Your side. Let those without faith repent and remain by Your grace, rebuking and forgiving their sins."
Audin was praying.
Jaxen was examining the blade of a stiletto, his face strangely intoxicated despite his blank expression.
Was he entranced by the blade?
Even Finn could tell it wasn't an ordinary weapon.
Still, was a single dagger worth treasuring like that?
It almost seemed like his face was glowing with an unfamiliar vitality.
The lazy one had sprawled out.
He had somehow managed to wedge himself between the rocks, clutching two swords to his chest with his eyes closed.
"I'm sleep-deprived."
Muttering to himself, he was clearly not in a normal state.
'Should I leave him like that?'
...It should be fine, right?
In Finn's judgment, this was the time to move.
There was a marksman in the distance—one who never missed his target.
A serious threat.
Their lives might already be hanging by a thread.
"I think it'll be fine."
The one who spoke was the big-eyed soldier, Krais.
Despite his constant anxiety, he still ended up saying that everything would be alright.
And what he said next was even more absurd.
"There aren't many variables left now."
What variables?
He didn't explain.
Finn deliberately leaned out, checking behind them.
She wanted to bait an attack and confirm the enemy's position.
But no arrows came flying.
'This brings back memories.'
Once, he had lived with the plains as his bed and the sky as his blanket.
He had raced along mountain ridges as if they were playgrounds.
What kind of person had he been back then?
A skilled and outstanding hunter, carrying the weight of someone's expectations.
A time when responsibility and duty were intertwined with discussions of power.
There had been good moments and bad ones.
Moments he could never return to.
But what could he do?
Life was about accepting things as they came and moving forward.
Now, the West had become a frontier.
Acceptance and consent.
Rem learned that by watching Enkrid.
In some ways, his squad leader was a man who never accepted or conceded.
But in another sense, he was also someone who did accept, concede, and acknowledge.
'That skill, that talent.'
Becoming a knight simply by refusing to give up?
That was a suicide attempt—an act of killing both body and mind.
And yet, he pressed forward.
Watching his back, all sorts of thoughts crossed Rem's mind.
How could a person be like that?
And as he wondered, a realization struck him.
'Acknowledging the lack of talent—'
That was where Enkrid started.
Acknowledging, accepting, and conceding.
After reflecting on what he had, what did he do?
He moved forward.
He attained the Heart of the Beast, something most would find impossible to embody until the brink of death.
And now, even immense strength resided within that heart.
He acknowledged, accepted, and conceded—then walked forward toward tomorrow.
Whether at dawn or dusk, always the same.
Thinking of his squad leader lifted his spirits.
Rem gave a silent smile.
For no reason, he was feeling good.
'It's been a while.'
He felt like swinging his axe with excitement.
A faint longing surfaced—to return to the days when he simply surrendered himself to a single word: hunt.
Finding the traces left by the hawks was not difficult.
Rem was neither a Pathfinder nor a Ranger.
But he was a hunter.
And what was a hunter?
A Pathfinder was someone who walked well.
A Ranger was someone who walked well and fought well.
Among scouts, Rangers were the specialists.
But did that make them hunters?
Catching a few rabbits didn't qualify one as a hunter.
Then what was a hunter?
'What else would it be?'
Someone who catches their target properly.
The people of the continent—many of them were in bad shape.
What was it they called him?
Enri?
A plains hunter?
That was supposed to be a hunter?
In his tribe, Enri wouldn't even be considered a guide, let alone a hunter.
Not even half of one.
In the tribe's teachings, hunters were those who killed and captured their prey.
The ones who sustained the tribe's livelihood.
'Found it.'
At the end of his thoughts, Rem spotted his prey.
Twitching his nose, he followed the scent, circling around to get behind them.
Erasing his tracks?
That was trivial.
Walking silently?
He was as confident as a sly wildcat.
By his standards, some prey were easy, some were hard.
Right now, this was the easiest kind—an idiot too absorbed in his own thoughts.
What easier prey could there be?
His footsteps imitated the best hunter of the western wilderness—the spotted predator.
His breathing was long and slow.
When concealing his presence, he held his breath, mimicking the round-headed predator known as the hunter of the western lakes.
The faint rustle of his clothes brushing against the wind was there, but he ignored it.
The enemy was too focused ahead.
He closed the distance, sticking right behind the last man in line.
Even then, the enemy remained oblivious to his presence.
They were moving toward higher ground, one behind the other, forming a line from the lower path upward.
Rem reached out.
His hand landed on the left shoulder of the one ahead.
The man flinched and spun around.
'Good reaction speed.'
The moment Rem tapped his left shoulder, he shifted right.
His movements were as fast as a ghost, as silent as a panther.
From the enemy's perspective, they felt a touch on their left shoulder, turned—
and saw nothing.
Thwack!
What followed was an axe swing.
A clean strike to the twisted nape, as if splitting firewood.
With a wet crack, blood splattered.
A spray of crimson hit Rem's cheek.
Instead of smiling, he watched the others with his gray eyes.
Every single one of them wore an expression of horror.
Their eyes—wide in shock—resembled those of a frightened deer.
Was this part of the thrill of the hunt?
"...Ambush!"
"Shit!"
"Block him!"
Curses erupted as they scrambled into action.
As if about to charge, Rem crouched low.
The enemy reacted immediately.
Three of them simultaneously unsheathed short swords with a sharp
ching!
Still, one thought lingered—good reaction speed.
Rem rolled his right shoulder and moved his left hand.
A simple trick.
The axe was in his right hand, so their focus would be on that.
Just as expected, their eyes locked onto his right side.
In that instant, a hand axe left his left hand, whistling through the air—
and embedded itself squarely in the forehead of the archer in the back.
The struck man's feet lifted off the ground as he was thrown backward.
"Scatter!"
One of them shouted.
Again, good instincts.
Did they recognize the difference in skill at a glance?
Or was it just instinct?
Either way, it was the right decision.
Even as the command to scatter rang out, the three sword-wielders charged at Rem.
A coordinated action.
The remaining five immediately bolted.
They swiftly dispersed left and right, scrambling down the rocky mountain,
while one climbed even higher.
Out of the original ten, two were already dead.
Rem swung his axe, thinking.
Of course, they didn't stand a chance.
They rushed in—he split and cut them down.
Simple movements, yet to the enemy, they were like the scythe of death.
Amongst the fallen, drenched in blood, the gray-haired hunter twitched his nose.
Amidst the stench of blood, the scent of humans lingered.
A hunter trained by the tribe took another step forward.
Rem had no intention of letting a single one escape.
'What is this?'
Hawk Eye could feel it—he was being hunted.
And that was absurd.
Born in a mountain village of Aspen, he had a natural talent for archery from a young age.
Becoming the village's best hunter by fifteen was a given.
At least, to him, it was.
Every shot hit its mark, and he instinctively knew where to aim to kill.
After leaving the village to become a mercenary, he gained fame, caught the eye of a noble, and eventually joined the military.
It was the start of a new life—one of status and wealth.
"How about becoming part of the principality?"
He was on the verge of being adopted by the noble he had once saved.
The man was less than ten years older than him, but what did that matter?
Status was all that counted.
Once this mission was over, it would be finalized.
"I will grant you the newly acquired fief."
His soon-to-be adoptive father's words.
Hawk Claw could see it—the life of a landowner, rising beyond his station.
Perhaps, he could even wed his half-sister.
Whoosh.
Thud!
"Urgh!"
Something struck the back of his thigh.
Hawk Eye tumbled forward, agony surging through him.
His head slammed against a rock with a dull thud.
The world spun.
It took a moment of gasping breaths for his vision to clear.
"Cough."
And the moment it did, nausea hit.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, he looked ahead.
"You run well. Impressive."
Death stood before him.
A specter with silver-gray hair.
"How...?"
Hawk Eye's voice trembled with the weight of his unspoken questions.
How had this man tracked him?
Why hadn't he sensed his approach?
Rem did not speak to his prey.
Thud.
An arrow—his own—pierced his throat.
The tip emerged from the back of his neck.
Blood foamed at his lips, bubbling down his chin.
"Hm."
Rem studied his handiwork for a moment before dusting off his hands.
The hunt had been too easy.
A pity, really.
But it was done.
Acceptance. Recognition. Consent.
The same thoughts churned in his mind.
Throughout the hunt, he had thought of his squad leader.
If he lived like that man, what would become of him?
Lately, that question had taken root in his mind.
Marcus led his unit toward Cross Guard.
A mere two-day march.
At a standard pace.
No—slower than standard.
They had taken their time, resting when needed.
'Will this even work?'
And if it didn't?
What then?
Should he ask Enkrid, the one who had suggested this?
No.
His lieutenants weren't fools.
"We just withdraw. Whether they fall for it or not, the enemy will be forced to react."
"Actually attacking the city would be a poor move, but this... Who proposed this strategy again?"
A squad member had relayed the words through the fairy company commander—through Enkrid.
Krais, was it?
That squad was full of lunatics.
Still, it was a clever ruse.
Feign an assault on the city, then swing around to block the enemy's retreat.
If the enemy diverted forces to defend the city or secure another route—success.
If they didn't move at all—that was also success.
That was why the Madmen Squad had been sent.
They wouldn't strike a crippling blow, but they could at least flick the enemy's ear and make them flinch.
And Marcus knew—those flicks could be damn strong.
'Maybe the strongest finger flick on the continent?'
Pfft.
The thought made him chuckle.
And so, they executed the plan.
Two days to assess the situation, then three to four days more.
They marched for over four days before changing course, heading back.
Marcus didn't rush on the return.
After all, he wanted to see them again.
That hope was soon fulfilled.
"The Madmen Squad—seven members besides the leader—has returned."
The raiders were back.

Comments

Loading...