Chapter 317 - The Body Demands Recovery

The body demanded recovery. While Encrid was struggling through his repeating todays, while Dunbachel and Sinar hurried to intercept the light cavalry attacking their rear and fought bloody battles, and while Ragna excitedly babbled about brown shit after finding his catalyst, Jaxon was busy too. 'Hmm.'

For the first time in a very long while, he caught the scent of someone in his own line of work. Not a literal scent. His keen five senses blurred and merged, stimulating his sixth sense; he had caught that scent as a feeling. Soundless footsteps. An approaching blade. What his Sixth Sense detected took visible form. Jaxon slipped out from among the soldiers. The other group had recognized him too. They were known as the assassin clan: the founders and true owners of Aspen's assassins' guild, the Swamps of Montterre. These three assassins were nothing like its figurehead guild leader. Each had complete confidence in their abilities. They moved as soon as they spotted Jaxon.

'There's an amateur over there. Let's kill him before we go.'

A mere exchange of glances conveyed their shared intent. Jaxon deliberately let his presence show, deliberately made noise, deliberately drew them in. Yes, he was enticing them. Urging them to kill him. His entire body offered a temptation: he was experienced in this sort of fight, but not as skilled as they were. 'Three.'

He gauged their number from the faint killing intent following him. Moving in what amounted to a seductive tango, he slipped out of the allied ranks. The three following his trail made their move. One soldier broke away from the allied formation. An old soldier with a helmet awkwardly pulled down over his head fell, clutching a spear to his chest. Something about him drew the eye. His fall was conspicuously dramatic.

THUD!

He dropped to his knees, even crying, "Whoops!" Nearby soldiers on both sides turned toward him. Amusingly enough, he was wearing a Border Guard uniform. When had he stolen that? Without looking, Jaxon knew the old soldier had made the noise by striking the ground with a thickly gloved hand, not his knees. At the same time, he sensed a blade coming from behind. A skewer of a sword. Taking his cue from the old soldier, Jaxon used a similar trick.

"Oh!"

He acted startled at the sight of him and pitched forward. His tottering fall was a perfect imitation of a stupid raw recruit. "You idiot!"

An allied commander watching from behind shouted. To him, it looked as though Jaxon had broken formation and an enemy soldier had spotted him and stabbed at his back. He seemed to have barely dodged, so the commander's anger at the man who had left the ranks was understandable. Jaxon had no intention of drawing this fight out. He had fought this kind of battle more times than he cared to remember. Even as he fell, he had already thrown a silent knife, a soundless throwing blade. THUNK.

The old soldier raised a hand to shield his chest. The dagger planted itself in that hand like a flower in an arrangement. "Blocked it."

Jaxon murmured indifferently, still bent halfway at the waist. The old soldier who had blocked the soundless throwing blade saw Jaxon's eyes looking up, his chin tucked down. His gaze was armored in pure indifference. Red ringed eyes whose centers were a deep, dark brown. The sight sent gooseflesh crawling over the assassin's entire body. The clan member pulled the blade out of the back of his hand and moved his fingers.

[Kill him.]

An order in sign language. It was reflexive. Foreboding had run down his spine. The other two clan members immediately brought their specialties to bear. They threw poisoned daggers and released poisonous smoke at Jaxon's feet. The allied commander had started forward to save the recruit, but stopped. He was from Border Guard. A closer look at the stumbling man revealed not a stupid recruit, but Jaxon. In truth, Jaxon had deliberately shown his face to tell him not to interfere, but the commander had no way of knowing that. If he still came closer and died after that, it was his own fate. None of Jaxon's concern. Hadn't he put enough distance between them that they wouldn't die unless they approached? That was why he had left the formation. Using allied soldiers as shields would have made the fight easier, but he hadn't. This much should keep Encrid, his Captain, from giving him a strange look even if he saw it. The Captain would dislike him using allied soldiers as meat shields, wouldn't he? 'Look at all the things I'm worrying about.'

Jaxon felt the blade in his heart growing dull. Of course, that did not dull the skills etched into his bones. WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

Daggers cut through the air with sharp whistles, and a steel wire had suddenly pulled taut, aiming for his ankles. Jaxon detected and evaded it all. His senses were truly monstrous. Naturally. The dodging sense. Sixth Sense. He had taught them all. And in terms of sensory ability alone, Jaxon was a genius who had surpassed even Fairies through his own efforts. What followed was predictable. The assassins fought back as they fled, and Jaxon pursued them one by one, giving them second mouths in their throats or planting daggers in their hearts like flowers. Before long, they were quite far from the battlefield. In other words, no one, friend or foe, had properly witnessed their fight. Even watching from right in front of them, all anyone would have seen was things whipping through the air. "Fuck. Are you with Georg’s Dagger?"

His last opponent, the man disguised as an old soldier, asked as he lay dying. He looked aggrieved. "Would knowing make you feel any better?"

"Fuck."

Blood streamed from the corners of his mouth. If Jaxon left the dagger in his chest, he would live just a little longer. But there was no reason to oblige him. Jaxon pulled the dagger free and leaped back. In a final act of defiance, the man shot a needle he had held in his mouth. It sailed uselessly through the air. "You bastard."

How could he never let his guard down, not even a little? Whatever the assassin's demeanor or the look in his eyes, Jaxon remained unruffled. He watched indifferently from a short distance away, inspecting his own wounds while the trembling man slowly died. The evidence of poison was unmistakable. Black froth rose on his skin. A potent poison, but not one lethal to him. He recognized it. The last assassin died while Jaxon was checking his wounds. Out of habit, he searched the assassin's clothes. Needles, poison powder, smoke bombs, and the like. Then he found tattoos on their bodies. They bore an emblem. A black lily, one of the traces Jaxon was pursuing. He had not expected to see it on assassins from Aspen. He stared at it. It seemed he could not simply let this pass. Which meant it was time to leave, if only for a while.

'For a while?'

Realizing he was already thinking of coming back left him feeling strange. Since when had he lived with a home, a refuge? Somewhere to return to. What an indulgent notion. Yet despite that thought, he also knew he would do everything he could to return. Not yet. Not yet. He still wanted to see what that man Encrid would do. There really was something about him that made it impossible to look away. 'I should tell him before I go.'

A report that he needed a short leave would suffice.

* * *

Encrid slept and woke, over and over. He knew better than anyone how important it was to eat well and sleep well when injured and hurting, so that was exactly what he did. Above all, whenever he opened his eyes, he was hungry. The body forged by the Isolation Technique was making its demands for recovery known. Very forcefully, too. Its argument boiled down to one thing: hunger. He was hungry beyond belief. "Anything to eat?"

Those were his first words upon waking after coming back from being half-dead. "Sir? Yes, just a moment, sir!"

The stiffly disciplined medic abandoned his bedside and ran out. He returned carrying thin porridge. "I'll feed you, sir!"

"No need."

For some reason, both his arms had been wrapped in layer upon layer of bandages, but he could still manage a bowl of porridge. He took the bowl and spoon and finished it in no time. The medic spoke. "You mustn't eat too quickly."

"I'm fine." Even before learning the Isolation Technique, digestion had been one of his strengths. If you didn't want to get yourself killed, knowing how to sleep and eat well was essential. No skill and no stamina? That was the perfect recipe for dying as a mercenary. And now? Perhaps he could digest dirt, even if iron was still beyond him. ["Brother, eating well and shitting well are fundamental."] The Isolation Technique was an art for building the body. It did more than develop a hard shell of muscle; it governed the body's workings within as well. Why else would it include how to eat and rest? Encrid ate his fill and closed his eyes. He intended to rest thoroughly. Amid that cycle of eating and sleeping, he briefly opened his eyes to find Jaxon. Blood had dried in his hair, and his expression was grim. The smell of earth and blood pricked Encrid's nose. He had wondered where Jaxon had gone without a farewell as soon as the battle ended. Apparently he had been up to something somewhere. "I need to be away for a while," Jaxon said.

"Would you stay if I told you not to go?"

Encrid asked without blinking. Idle curiosity. It wasn't a question he would normally ask, but he was still half-asleep. Jaxon's expression did not change. He would go. Encrid didn't need an answer to know that.

"Go, then. Come back." His men, Jaxon included, had things they would not compromise on. He didn't know what those things were, but he knew they existed, and he respected that. They were his men, but they were also the ones who had brought him this far. He had built up his todays on the foundation of their skills to reach where he was now. Meeting Jaxon's eyes, Encrid added one thing.

"Don't be late."

"I'm not bad with directions."

There was no trace of a smile in the reply, but it was a joke. Neither man smiled; they simply let the joke serve as their farewell. After those few words, Encrid felt exhaustion rush over him.

"Going to sleep."

"Yes, sir." When he next opened his eyes, Jaxon was gone. Come to think of it, it had seemed to be around dawn when he woke before. This time, Sinar was holding a spoon. "Ah."

The Fairy of inhuman beauty held the spoon with an expressionless face, urging him to open his mouth. She meant to feed him. Her intent was unmistakable. "Aren't you busy?"

What on earth was this Fairy doing here?

"My betrothed nearly died. This is the least I can do."

A Fairy-style joke. Encrid blinked, then opened his mouth because arguing was too much trouble. The Fairy actually pushed the spoon into it. "Shall I chew it for you?"

"Why would you chew porridge for me?"

"It's the sentiment."

"Fairy society is rather promiscuous."

"Is that an insult?"

"Not exactly."

"It's only me. And only with you." Encrid still found Fairy humor awkward. And this was after he had grown somewhat used to it. "Shall I prepare a Fairy meal next time?"

Sinar still spoke without the slightest smile.

"What's in it?"

Frogs ate bugs, after all. "A nutritious green porridge packed with high-quality fiber."

"How does it taste?"

"Positively heavenly."

"I'll pass." No matter how he considered it, that sounded like torture for the taste buds. Besides, he loved the porridge he was eating now. It contained finely minced meat and onion, with spices added on top. Who had made this? It tasted wonderful. He had been bedridden since the evening he returned. He slept through most of the day, waking now and then to see Jaxon off or be fed porridge. During one brief waking spell, he saw Ragna sleeping. Dunbachel came by to grumble, too. "The fighting was too easy this time. I can fight better than that."

But why tell him? Yes, he knew perfectly well she could fight. Watching her take a beating from Rem was enough to tell him that. "I'll do better next time."

Again, he had no idea why she kept emphasizing it. Sleep, eat, rest, repeat. His body demanded recovery, and Encrid listened. He spent so little time awake that there was no chance to review the fight. Now and then he wondered where Jaxon had gone, but knowing wouldn't change anything, and he had no desire to pry. If it were something Jaxon meant to tell him, he would have. Encrid concentrated on eating, drinking, and resting. "Do you work hard even at this?"

A female soldier asked during one of his brief waking spells. Encrid blinked twice and recalled her name.

"Helma." Beside her stood the soldier who was a master of seasonings. His head and shoulder were heavily bandaged; he must have been wounded in the battle. Another hesitant-looking face stood beside him. Who was that again? "Well, why did you hide who you were? You really surprised us."

Helma spoke, and the soldier beside her nodded.

"I-I've committed an unforgivable offense!"

The third soldier abruptly planted his head on the ground, raising a little dust. "What?"

"I ran my mouth..."

"Oh, forget it. That's in the past. You didn't even know who I was. In a sense, I deceived you."

"N-no, sir!" So that was who it was: the soldier who kept running his mouth. The one who told him to get up front if he wanted to fight. Encrid brushed it off. He was more interested in the bowl beside Helma. A savory aroma reached his nose. He was hungry again. 'It really feels like the god of beggars has taken up residence in my stomach.'

In truth, his body was simply demanding recovery to make up for the blood he had lost. It had already become a regenerative body, optimized for healing. Audin would have been proud. "Brother, they say the ground hardens after rain. Once your wounds heal, you'll be tougher still. Let me break your leg for you."

He would have offered a chilling joke like that without hesitation. The thought nearly made Encrid laugh. Every last bastard in his unit pretended otherwise, but they were all dying to trade jokes with him. Rem was the worst of the lot. What would he say if he saw Encrid now? "Does it hurt? Mind if I poke it?"

Something like that, surely. Crazy barbarian. Rem was being cursed for doing absolutely nothing. Perhaps he was digging in his ear with his little finger right about now. As Encrid briefly stared into space, lost in thought, Helma lifted the bowl and asked,

"Would you like some?"

Encrid reflexively opened his mouth. Only after the porridge was in his mouth did he wonder why he was doing this when he could feed himself. Sinar had given him a strange habit. But now that he had accepted a mouthful, suddenly insisting on eating by himself would be awkward. One spoonful, then two. This had a different flavor again. Soft-cooked beans and savory meat mingled as he chewed. "I added well-simmered chicken and beans," the soldier beside her explained.

The master of seasonings knew his way around cooking, too.

"It's delicious."

"Thank you."

He looked bashful. "I'd like to feed you, too."

The third soldier said something insane. Had he lost his mind?

"Are you nuts?"

Helma shut him down before it went any further. Mm. Well done, Helma. Encrid had only woken briefly. After eating and sitting still for a moment, he felt sleepy again. His body still wanted to recover. "It was an honor."

Helma spoke once he had finished, just before he fell asleep. Encrid merely dipped his chin. Sleepiness was taking him again. "I'm going to apply for a transfer. I want to fight at your side," the mouthy soldier added.

Whether he transferred or not was his own affair. Just before sleep claimed him, Encrid faintly heard Ragna beside him.

"Won't you feed me?"

He heard Helma's reply, too.

"Your arms seem to work perfectly well."

In fact, so did his own. In his dream, Encrid had no arms and swung a sword with his toes. Ragna appeared and asked why he was doing that. He replied that it was because he had no arms. A nonsense dream. And so he continued sleeping, waking, and eating. The following afternoon, Krais came to tell him Aspen was withdrawing. "That's good news."

"Well, we don't know whether they're planning another trick."

Suspicion filled Krais's face. He looked as though he were staring at someone who had cheated him out of his Krona. Did he feel they had gotten one over on him this time? Encrid didn't ask. He went back to sleep. After two solid days of rest, he could move about.

"Impressive."

Sinar was genuinely astonished. Her expression remained as impassive as ever, of course. But astonished was astonished. What kind of body did he have, to be on his feet already? Those injuries might have left an ordinary person not half-dead, but simply dead. Was the ointment she had given him some miracle cure that healed everything it touched? She had heard of medicines made with holy water infused with immense amounts of divine power, but the ointment made by the Fairies' secret method contained none. "Have you been eating something special behind my back?"

"What are you talking about?"

Dismissing it as nonsense, Encrid checked his body. 'Let's see.'

If his usual condition was a ten, he was about a five now. He wasn't fully healed, but there was no longer any need to stay in bed. He was getting restless, too.