Chapter 163: Chapter 317 - The Assassin's Waltz
His body demanded recovery, Enkrid repeated the same grueling day, pushing himself through fire and fury.
Dunbakel and Shinar moved swiftly to deal with the light cavalry attacking their rear, clashing with the enemy in fierce, bloody combat.
Meanwhile, Ragna, excitedly proclaiming he had discovered a "turning point," rambled on with his usual nonsense, something about brown excrement. Jaxen, however, was busy in his own way.
Hmm.
For the first time in a long while, Jaxen caught the faint scent of his own kind in the air.
Not that there was an actual smell.
It was his sharpened senses blending into an almost sixth sense, allowing him to "perceive" the presence as a kind of smell.
Silent footsteps. A blade approaching.
The intuition painted itself in his mind, visualizing the threat before it arrived.
Jaxen slipped out from among the soldiers.
His opponents also recognized him instantly.
They were members of the infamous assassination lineage who had founded Aspen's assassin guild, The Monster's Swamp. They were not just any guild members but the actual masterminds behind the organization, while the official guild master was little more than a figurehead.
These were three assassins who carried absolute confidence in their own skills.
As soon as they identified Jaxen, their bodies moved in unison.
"There's an amateur among them. Let's kill him and move on."
Without exchanging words, their intentions aligned through their glances.
Jaxen deliberately made himself noticeable, allowing small sounds and traces to leak, intentionally luring them.
Yes, this was a lure.
It was an invitation to kill.
While Jaxen was skilled in such combat, he broadcasted subtle signs that he was inferior to them. It was a calculated provocation, almost a seductive dance inviting them into his trap.
"Three."
Counting the faint killing intent pursuing him, Jaxen confirmed the number of enemies.
He maneuvered with the grace of a tango dancer, slipping through the allied ranks until the three assassins followed suit.
Within the formation, an older soldier, awkwardly wearing his helmet, stumbled as if clutching his spear to his chest.
The old soldier fell with an exaggerated motion, letting out a groan of "Oof!" as his knees hit the ground with a loud thud.
The spectacle was oddly captivating, drawing not only the enemy's gaze but also the attention of nearby soldiers.
Amusingly, the uniform he wore was that of the Border Guard, stolen at some point.
Without looking, Jaxen knew the "old soldier" had hit the ground with a gloved hand rather than his knees to create the noise.
At the same time, he sensed a blade flying toward his back.
It was a needle-like sword.
Jaxen mimicked the clumsy antics of the old soldier.
"Ah!"
He stumbled forward as if startled, collapsing in a manner that resembled a bumbling rookie soldier.
"You idiot!"
An allied commander watching from behind shouted in frustration.
To the commander, it looked as though Jaxen had broken formation and narrowly escaped an enemy ambush.
The commander's anger was understandable, as it appeared that Jaxen's mistake had nearly cost him his life.
But Jaxen had no intention of dragging out the fight.
He had grown weary of this kind of battle after experiencing it far too many times.
Even as he fell, Jaxen had already thrown a silent dagger, a bladeless knife designed to kill without sound.
Thuck.
The old soldier raised a hand to clutch his chest, where the dagger had landed as though it were a flower pinned to his chest.
"Blocked it."
Jaxen muttered indifferently, his body slightly bent.
Through his lowered gaze, the old soldier caught sight of Jaxen's expression. His eyes, devoid of emotion, were shaded with crimson hues encircled by a deep, earthy brown.
That stare alone sent shivers down the old soldier's spine.
The assassin pulled the blade from the back of his hand, his movements fluid as he gestured with his fingers.
[Kill him.]
The order was conveyed through hand signs.
It was reflexive, driven by the ominous feeling crawling up his back.
The other two assassins sprang into action, throwing poison-laced daggers and releasing toxic smoke at Jaxen's feet.
The allied commander, who had initially moved to save the "rookie," stopped in his tracks.
Upon closer inspection, the "rookie" wasn't a fool but Jaxen.
Although Jaxen had deliberately shown his face to signal the commander not to interfere, the commander couldn't fully grasp his intent.
Even so, if someone rushed in and died, it was their own fault. Jaxen had maintained enough distance to ensure their safety.
The reason he had left the formation was simple: he didn't want to involve allied soldiers.
Using an allied soldier as a human shield would've made the fight easier, but Jaxen refrained.
Even Enkrid, the captain, would've approved. He disliked unnecessary sacrifices.
"I'm worrying about the strangest things."
Jaxen felt as though the blade he carried in his heart was becoming dull.
But that didn't mean his skills, honed to perfection, had lost their edge.
Swish, swish!
Daggers flew through the air, steel wires tightened, aiming for his ankles.
Jaxen detected and evaded them all.
His senses were monstrous.
Of course, they were.
In terms of sheer sensory prowess, Jaxen was a genius who had surpassed even the fairies through sheer effort.
The outcome was predictable.
The assassins resisted, then fled, but Jaxen hunted them down one by one, carving new mouths into their throats or pinning daggers into their hearts like macabre flowers.
By the time it was over, they were far from the battlefield.
No one, ally or foe, had witnessed the fight clearly.
Even if they had, all they would've seen were flashes of movement and fleeting shadows.
The last opponent, disguised as an old soldier, muttered bitterly as he lay dying, his voice tinged with resentment.
"Who are you?"
"Would knowing make it less bitter?" Jaxen replied indifferently.
"Shit..." Blood trickled from the man's lips.
A dagger was lodged in his chest. Removing it would only hasten his death, though leaving it might grant a few fleeting moments. Jaxen saw no reason for such charity.
With a swift motion, he pulled the dagger free and leaped back, just as the man used his dying breath to fire a needle he had concealed in his mouth.
The needle zipped harmlessly through the air.
"This bastard..." the assassin thought, astonished by Jaxen's unrelenting vigilance.
Regardless of his opponent's manner or gaze, Jaxen remained composed, staring indifferently at the dying man from a short distance. The assassin trembled violently until life finally left him.
Jaxen took the time to inspect his wounds. Traces of poison were evident; black foam bubbled on his skin. Though potent, the toxin wasn't fatal to him—it was a type he recognized.
As he tended to himself, he habitually searched the assassin's body. Among the usual items—needles, poison powder, and smoke bombs—he spotted a tattoo: a black lily.
It was a symbol Jaxen had been pursuing, though he hadn't expected to find it among Aspen's assassins. He stared at it for a moment.
This discovery left him with no choice. He would have to leave briefly.
"Briefly?"
The thought of returning struck him as strange. When had he ever considered having a place to come back to?
The notion of a home or sanctuary felt foreign, even indulgent.
Despite this, Jaxen resolved to do everything necessary to ensure he could return. He still wanted to see what Enkrid would do. That man had an inexplicable quality that made him impossible to ignore.
"I'll let him know before I go," Jaxen decided. A short report requesting leave should suffice.
Enkrid alternated between sleeping and waking, fully aware that rest and proper nutrition were crucial for recovery. His body, shaped by the Isolation Technique, demanded it with uncompromising urgency.
Hunger became his singular focus.
"Is there anything to eat?" he asked as soon as he regained consciousness.
"Y-yes, sir! Right away!" An overly disciplined medic scrambled off, returning with a bowl of watery porridge.
"I'll feed you!" the medic offered eagerly.
"No need."
Despite the bandages wrapped around his arms, Enkrid wasn't so incapacitated that he couldn't handle a spoon. Snatching the bowl and utensil, he swiftly finished the meal.
"Don't eat so fast," the medic cautioned.
"I'll be fine."
Even before mastering the Isolation Technique, Enkrid's body had been adept at digesting food. Proper rest and nutrition were survival skills he had honed as a mercenary—essential when strength and stamina were paramount.
Now, with his current condition, he thought he might even digest dirt if necessary.
"Eat well, rest well—that's the foundation," he muttered, closing his eyes to sleep again.
It was during one such moment of rest that Jaxen appeared.
Enkrid awoke to the faint scent of blood and earth, his half-lidded eyes catching sight of Jaxen's grim expression and dried, blood-matted hair.
"I need to step away for a while," Jaxen said without preamble.
"If I stop you, will you stay?" Enkrid asked, his tone casual, almost curious.
It was an unusual question, one he wouldn't typically ask. Still groggy from sleep, it slipped out unbidden.
Jaxen's expression didn't waver. His answer was clear without words.
"Go ahead," Enkrid finally said.
He respected that each of his men had lines they would not cross, principles they would not forsake. Though he didn't always know what those principles were, he acknowledged their existence.
As Jaxen turned to leave, Enkrid added, "Don't be late."
"I'm not one to get lost," Jaxen replied, his tone flat but subtly laced with humor.
Neither smiled, yet the exchange carried the weight of a shared jest.
Exhaustion soon pulled Enkrid back into sleep. When he next opened his eyes, Jaxen was gone.
Instead, he found Shinar sitting by his bedside, holding a spoon.
"Ah."
The fairy, with her inhuman beauty, was expressionless as she wordlessly motioned for him to open his mouth.
"You're not busy?" Enkrid asked.
"Shouldn't I do this much for my betrothed who just came back from death's door?"
It was a joke, fairy-style.
Enkrid blinked at her, too tired to argue. Reluctantly, he opened his mouth, allowing Shinar to feed him.
"Want me to chew it for you?" she teased.
"It's porridge. What's there to chew?"
"Just saying it's the thought that counts."
"Fairy society seems quite... liberal."
"Is that an insult?"
"Not really."
"I'm the exception."
"And it's only with you."
Enkrid still found fairy-style jokes awkward.
This was about as much as he had adjusted to them.
"Shall I prepare a fairy-style meal next time?"
Shinar spoke as always, with not even a trace of a smile.
"What are the ingredients?"
Frogs ate bugs, after all.
"A green nutritional porridge packed with high-quality fiber."
"And the taste?"
"Exquisite, heavenly flavor."
"I'll pass."
No matter how he thought about it, it seemed like something that would torment his taste buds.
The porridge he was eating now suited him perfectly.
It was made by grinding meat and onions finely, with spices added on top.
Whoever prepared this dish had done an excellent job.
It was superb.
Since collapsing that evening, he'd spent most of the day resting.
Enkrid had slept for the majority of the day.
In between, he saw off Jaxen, ate some porridge, and occasionally woke to see Ragna sleeping.
Dunbakel also came by to grumble.
"This fight was too easy. I can do much better."
But why was she saying that to him?
Yeah, I know you fight well.
Anyone can tell just by watching you get beaten up by Rem.
"I'll do better next time."
Why she kept emphasizing that was beyond him.
Sleeping, eating, and resting became a cycle.
His body demanded recovery.
Enkrid listened to his body's needs.
Since his waking hours were short, he had no time to review the fight.
Occasionally, he wondered where Jaxen had gone, but knowing wouldn't change anything, and he had no particular desire to find out.
If it had been something worth telling, Jaxen would've told him.
Enkrid focused on eating, drinking, and resting.
"Do you work hard at resting too?"
A female soldier asked when he briefly woke.
Blinking twice, Enkrid recalled her name.
"Helma."
Beside her stood the seasoning expert soldier.
This one seemed to have gotten injured in battle, as his head and shoulders were wrapped in bandages.
Nearby, another face hesitated awkwardly.
Who was that again?
"Why hide your identity like that? You surprised me."
Helma spoke, and the soldier next to her nodded.
"I… I have committed a grave sin!"
The third soldier suddenly bowed, head hitting the ground with a small puff of dust.
"For what?"
"I… spoke out of turn..."
"Oh, forget it.
It's in the past.
"You didn't even know who I was, so technically, I was the one being deceptive."
"No, absolutely not!"
So it was that loudmouthed soldier.
The one who had said something about stepping forward if there was going to be a fight.
Enkrid dismissed it casually.
More interesting was the bowl next to Helma.
A savory aroma wafted to his nose, rekindling his hunger.
"Feels like a god of beggars took up residence in my stomach."
In truth, it was merely his body's demand for recovery after blood loss.
His body had already become that of a regenerative deity, optimized for healing.
Audin would've been proud if he had seen this.
"Brother, they say the ground hardens after rain. Once you recover, you'll grow stronger. Shall I break a leg for you?"
Audin might have said such a grim joke without hesitation.
The thought almost made him laugh.
Every single one of his comrades pretended otherwise, but deep down, they were dying to banter with him.
Rem was the worst offender.
What would he say if he saw him now?
"Hey, does it hurt? Mind if I poke it?"
Yeah, probably something like that.
What a lunatic barbarian.
Even now, Rem was probably doing nothing but somehow getting blamed.
He might be picking his ear with his pinky finger at this very moment.
As Enkrid got momentarily lost in thought with a vacant expression, Helma spoke and lifted the bowl.
"Would you like some?"
Enkrid reflexively opened his mouth.
Only after eating the porridge did he wonder why he didn't just feed himself.
This odd habit had probably formed thanks to Shinar.
Still, it felt awkward to suddenly start feeding himself after already being fed.
As spoonfuls entered his mouth, he noticed the unique flavor.
Soft beans and savory meat blended together.
"It's boiled chicken and beans," a soldier explained beside him.
The seasoning expert also seemed skilled in cooking.
"This is good."
"Thank you."
He looked embarrassed.
"I want to feed you too," the third soldier blurted out absurdly.
What nonsense was this?
"Are you crazy?"
Helma preemptively shot it down.
Good job, Helma.
Enkrid had barely woken up.
After eating and sitting idly for a bit, drowsiness crept back in.
His body still demanded rest.
"It was an honor," Helma said just before he fell asleep.
Enkrid only nodded slightly before dozing off again.
"I'll be applying for a transfer. I want to fight by your side," said the loud soldier.
Whether he transferred or not was his business.
Just before sleep overtook him, Enkrid faintly heard Ragna's voice nearby.
"Won't you feed me too?"
To which Helma replied, "Your arms seem fine to me."
Truthfully, his arms were fine as well.
In his dreams, Enkrid wielded a sword with his toes, arm-less.
Ragna appeared, asking why he was doing that, to which he replied that he had no arms.
A ridiculous dream.
Thus, the cycle of sleeping, eating, and waking repeated.
The next afternoon, Krais arrived to inform him that Aspen had retreated.
"Good news."
"Though who knows what they're planning next," Krais replied, suspicion clouding his face.
He looked as if someone had cheated him out of his money.
Was he bitter about how things had turned out?
Enkrid didn't ask and simply went back to sleep.
After two days of continuous rest, he could move again.
"Impressive," said Shinar, genuinely surprised, though her expression remained as stoic as ever.
Still, she was surprised.
How could his body recover so quickly?
A normal person wouldn't have survived such injuries, let alone recovered in a few days.
Could the ointment she had given him truly heal everything it touched?
Shinar recalled stories of miracle ointments made with divine holy water, but her fairy tribe's ointments had no such divine properties.
"Did you eat something special without telling me?"
"What are you talking about?"
Finding the remark meaningless, Enkrid ignored her and inspected his body.
"Let's see."
If his normal condition was a ten, he was at about a five now.
His body wasn't fully healed yet, but he no longer needed to remain bedridden.
His body itched for action.
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