Chapter 276 - A Touring Show

"Listen, I'm—do you understand? I'm Raban." The aging man spoke. Encrid did not stop to organize his thoughts. Since when had he thought everything through before acting? He had come this far by following his heart and chasing his dream. Encrid swung his sword. The blade rose from below, reflecting the torchlight, with a dull whoosh. Yes, dull. Not sharp. It had been called The Tutor, but now it was simply an exquisitely sharp masterwork. Its blade cut through the man's arm. The stroke was not fast, but heavy and slow, forcing Raban to feel and watch the process of his own arm being severed. Seeing it did not mean he could evade it. Watching was all he could do, and before he could register the loss of a limb, searing pain struck him. "Aaargh!"

A horrific scream rang through the vast cavern. The part of his body that had hung beneath his shoulder dropped to the floor. Having declared independence from the human body, the arm flopped about, spraying blood to emphasize its point. Its former owner screamed as though objecting to that declaration. "Aah! Aah!"

His screaming, thrashing movements scattered red blood everywhere. Most splashed onto the armor and face of Encrid, who stood before him, watching impassively without dodging. Blood ran down his cheek and dripped onto the floor. Watching Raban writhe in the agony of losing an arm, Encrid spoke casually.

"Can you stop the bleeding, Esther?"

"Easily enough." Her method of stopping the bleeding was rather drastic. She extended a hand, and flames rose from it to cauterize the stump. "Aaaaaaargh! S-stop! P-please, stop!"

Encrid wondered how many equally desperate screams this crazy old bastard had heard, then abandoned the thought. "Why, why? I, I ooonly did what I was told! I was sold for a few gold coins!"

He had already lost a fair amount of blood before the burning began. After screaming in pain and being scorched in the name of stopping the bleeding, his voice had gone hoarse. Encrid raised his sword. "The leg."

With those emotionless words, he severed a leg. It flew sideways with a thud. Having declared its own independence from the human body, the leg pressed its point just as mercilessly. Beneath the countless torches illuminating the cavern, fresh red blood once again stained everything around them. Then Esther cauterized the severed stump with magical flames, and another feeble, pitiful scream rang out with renewed force.

"Aaaaaah!" All that had happened was an arm and a leg being cut off and the stumps burned, yet Raban wept tears of blood. Broken teeth spilled from his mouth mixed with blood. He let out one bloodcurdling scream after another. "Looks like it hurts."

"Fire does that to everyone."

Encrid spoke, and Jaxon answered. This was not merely branding someone with an iron. They were cutting off limbs and burning the exposed flesh. Jaxon was no master torturer, but he knew how it was done. He knew the structure of the human body and where pain struck hardest. He was well acquainted with such distinguished and effective methods as pulling out fingernails and driving needles beneath them. In his opinion, it was a wonder the alchemist wasn't fucking dead yet. Their conversation was dispassionate, as though they were discussing something worthless—a rock lying beside the road. At last, unable to withstand the pain, Raban—or Radol, whatever his name was—rolled his eyes back. He looked ready to die. Encrid stepped closer and pricked his forehead with his sword. No matter how much pain someone was already in, their senses responded keenly to a fresh source. All the more so when the sword pricking their forehead was slowly drawn downward to maximize the agony. "Shtooop."

Raban's voice was hoarse. Encrid asked him,

"Is there any way to turn the people locked in here back to normal?" An exquisitely timed question, Jaxon thought. Anyone who failed to talk at a moment like this could hardly be human. Even a specially trained assassin would try to kill themselves before ending up in this state, rather than endure it. Raban blinked incessantly, trembling, yet his eyes still darted about. His mind was still working. Fitting for a man whose worth lay in his head. Then came his answer. "Th-th-there iiish."

His words were badly slurred, but not difficult to understand. The instant Encrid heard them, he split the alchemist's head in half. His sword fell vertically, cleaving the skull without mercy. With a thud, it split open and spilled the brain that would have been so valuable had the man lived. "Why?"

Why ask, then kill him? Jaxon asked before he realized it.

"Is asking questions you know the answer to a hobby of yours?" Hearing Encrid's answer, Jaxon nodded. He knew, too. The alchemist called Raban had simply said whatever came to mind. People ruined like that could not be restored. There was no way. Even the greatest priest on the continent could not do the impossible. Those called saints could reattach a freshly torn-off arm, but they could not repair a ruined mind. That lay beyond the domain of divine power. The drugged woman was chewing on her own arm. And what could be done for the boy who was already dead? What of those things that were neither Ghoul nor human? Anyone who could undo that might as well be called a god. "He would have been valuable if we'd taken him back, wouldn't he?"

Sinar asked a reasonable question and received a reasonable answer.

"I didn't like the way he looked."

"I see. Fair enough." Seeing Sinar accept this, Esther nodded solemnly.

"He was hideous." Those who pursued magic, mystic arts, and spells also walked a path beyond humanity. Yet at the same time, they faced the tangible world. They did not forget their bodies, their flesh, their humanity. Not if they were proper mages. Whether Fairy, dwarf, or dragonfolk, they had a physical body, and no mage should forget that either. But that alchemist had strayed from that course. Evidence of his deeds was everywhere, and the contents of his research journal were no different. They were utterly rotten, stinking things. Hence, hideous. That was what she meant, though his appearance had been hideous too. To Esther, Encrid seemed to have surrendered himself to nothing, not even anger. What, then, had driven his sword? She wondered, but did not ask. She would explore, examine, and observe until she learned. That was a way to discover more than merely asking for an answer. In truth, there was no complicated reason. Encrid had cut him down as though disposing of something filthy. It was no different from washing muck off his hands. Punish the hand that held the blade, rather than the blade itself? What kind of bullshit was that? A human had done this, not a sword. A human capable of directing his own life. He had both the ability and the determination. He had merely done whatever he wanted. The person who carried out the act was guilty, not just the one who ordered it. By Encrid's standards, anyone who did this had no right to live. What if the culprit had been the ruler of a nation? What then? It would make no difference. Even if it meant being hunted for the rest of his life, living as a fugitive and being treated like a purse of gold by bounty hunters, Encrid would do the same. That was how he envisioned his dream. That was how he walked his path. Had she known what he was thinking, Pin, at least, would have shaken her head. It bordered on sheer madness.

"Do you think there are only one or two bastards like that on this continent?"

She might have shouted something like that. That was precisely why. Encrid wanted to cut such people down whenever he saw them. It was one reason he held a sword. A knight who would end the war was not merely a knight who fought well. Of course, Pin could not enter Encrid's head and read his thoughts.

"Good fucking riddance. There was some idiot alchemist here, and now he's dead. What can we do? He's already dead."

Her words made a plausible case. There was no need to take responsibility. Encrid gave it little thought, and Jaxon silently respected his Captain's choice. He had already gained everything he needed anyway. And, to be honest... 'I might have killed him myself.'

He had not wanted the man left alive. That was not calculation. It was a feeling. Emotion. An emotional response, for the first time in a very long while. 'Not something to spend here.'

He could not release his worn, eroded emotions here. His emotions were a blade held ready, and those who would receive it had already been chosen. "Your troops have entered the village, Company Commander. Let's bring them in to clear this up. And we should leave some of the survivors locked up."

They were drugged. Letting them out would clearly lead to a rampage. "Very well."

Sinar examined the few sheets in her hand. Reading the common tongue written on the thin paper, she spoke.

"There are a few more villages like this. It looks to be quite a long outing. What do you say?" There was much compressed into that question, but Encrid understood it well enough. Jaxon would follow his word, and Pin would follow Sinar's orders. "One village even raises demonic beasts."

From Sinar's words, Encrid understood.

'It wasn't that she'd learned nothing all this time.' There were too many enemies. Enough that uncovering every detail required painstaking effort and time. From there, his mind naturally pieced together their present situation. 'Unless we strike with a small elite force, the experiments and research materials will all be destroyed.'

'Then we'll gain nothing after the fighting.'

'And we'll give the bastards who need killing a chance to escape.' These were opponents who called for a company-sized force. This village alone had housed a witch who wielded lightning. They would need to prepare for that as well. Black Blade was no ordinary bandit gang. Encrid was slightly mistaken. Black Blade maintained several kinds of burrows. Some sold slaves. Others used drugs to tame demonic beasts. This one had a precious mage only because it was the most important of them all. Even for Black Blade, mages were not commonplace. He had finished thinking. This was not something to agonize over.

"Let's go."

Encrid gave his answer. If there were more places like this, they needed to be cleaned out. They had assembled a small elite party, including specialists in stealth. They even had a mage. Even if Esther did not intervene again, she would at least warn them of signs of magic. In many ways, this was an excellent opportunity. Above all, unless they struck every site now, the enemy would go into hiding again. "Aren't you curious who heads Black Blade?"

Sinar asked without commenting either way.

"Do you know?"

"I've established that it's one of the kingdom's nobles." Jaxon was listening to their conversation too. He had an aim in mind. The information he had deliberately leaked in parts of the kingdom was finally bearing fruit. He, too, very much wanted to meet Black Blade's leader. Even if he had a wife from whom war had separated him, he would have wanted to see that leader more. Leaving the village's cleanup to the allied troops who had entered, the party moved on.

"This is horrific."

The Platoon Commander shook his head at the atrocities inside the burrow. A few inexperienced soldiers could not hold back their nausea and vomited. The foul smell of vomit spread through the tunnels. Not letting creatures like this live was one reason Encrid held a sword. The departing party took to the mountains. Rough trails could offer shortcuts. In such terrain, Pin was an excellent guide.

* * *

In one of Black Blade's villages, four chiefs acted as one. They were four men who had lived together since childhood, and everyone called them the Four Bollun Brothers. Bald and menacing, they looked like typical mountain bandits. They were skilled enough to range out from their village and raid far and wide. Mountain banditry was, after all, part of the Black Blade Bandits' trade. A black-haired man stood before the four of them. It was broad daylight.

"How did you get in?"

The eldest asked, stroking his shaven scalp. The day was overcast, but no snow fell. The second brother narrowed his eyes. The village seemed strangely quiet. There were dozens of their men here. Why had it stayed so quiet while this bastard made his way inside? The man silently adjusted his sword belt, laid a hand on his sword's grip, and asked,

"If you have any claim to innocence, now's the time to make it. I'm rather busy." Busy? The third brother's large eyes darted about. The fourth was quick on the uptake. Already sensing something wrong, he quietly edged back and grasped the end of a concealed net. He intended to throw it if things went south. The net, with weights attached to its corners, was the fourth brother's prized weapon. Indeed, the brothers had gained a considerable advantage from using it in their fights. The third was a master dart thrower. He brushed his hand over the poisoned dart tips and finished his own preparations. The eldest two were masters of close combat. No one spoke. Encrid and the four men stared one another down. Tension filled the space between the five of them. To the four bald brothers, the mansion hall they normally treated as their palace felt cramped. 'Who the hell is this bastard?'

After a brief moment of deliberation, the fourth brother threw his net. Standing still, Encrid saw the falling net and two bald men as points. He drew lines connecting those points in his mind, then moved his feet and swung his sword, guiding his body and hand along those lines. His sword struck a weight at the edge of the net, tangling it in midair, then left long marks across the throats of the third brother and the fourth, who had thrown it. Naturally, since those marks had been made with a sword, vast quantities of blood poured from them. Seeing the blood gush out, the second brother went utterly mad.

"You son of a bitch!" It was not a particularly difficult fight. In other words, it ended in an instant. Encrid deflected the charging enemy's thick blade with the Flowing Sword Technique and struck. Evasion and attack came together. As he redirected the blow, his blade struck the edge of the man's forehead. The tip hit and sank in. "You bastard!"

The eldest's axe came hurtling in. It was a thick, heavy weapon, and its wielder boasted monstrous strength. He put everything he had into the blow. Having punched a hole in the second brother's forehead, Encrid pivoted on his left foot and met the attack head-on.

CRASH!

A deafening impact rang out. Then... "... What are you?"

Both arms broken under the force of the clash, the eldest spoke in a hollow voice. Encrid drew a breath to steady his breathing, released the Heart of the Superhuman, and answered,

"What good would knowing do you?"

The bastard was about to die. Encrid's sword offered not the slightest forgiveness or mercy. That was the end. There had been no mage. Jaxon had put on some artifact he had picked up who knew where and run utterly wild. He had killed the five bandits guarding the village center in an instant, without a soul noticing, and Encrid had walked inside. Yet even after searching every corner of the village, they found nothing hidden. What was this place? Just a gathering point for troops? As Encrid wondered, Pin stepped forward.