The Regressed Mercenary’s Machinations Novel - Chapter 777

Chapter 777
Torvalt was paralyzed by uncertainty.

This ordeal would undoubtedly create a permanent bond with the Julien Mercenary Corps. Even if they eventually went their separate ways, that result would be enough. He had a purpose here.

‘But why…?’

Why was this hollow sensation suddenly consuming him?

It felt as though he had committed a grave error in judgment. It was as if the spot he was supposed to hold within the Julien Mercenary Corps had vanished, leaving him as nothing more than a temporary figure in their journey.

Perhaps that was simply the reality. Their introduction had been rocky, and he hadn’t truly built a deep history with them yet. Therefore, that sense of conviction he’d felt must have been an illusion—just a desperate wish of his heart to belong.

That was the logical explanation. How could he possibly view himself as one of them after such a fleeting acquaintance?

And yet…

That complicated, alien emotion refused to dissipate, leaving him deeply restless.

‘No, no… I… I…’

Where had he gone wrong?

Technically, everything was fine. Yet the mere presence of this feeling made him feel profoundly alienated from himself. Torvalt attempted to isolate the root of the sensation, searching for a single word to define it.

If he had to name it…

‘…Dissonance?’

It felt as if his specific choice had derailed the natural progression of destiny. No matter how he analyzed it, that was the most accurate description.

‘Seriously? Just because of that?’

He began to genuinely question his own sanity. Why was he reacting this way toward people who were essentially strangers?

‘Did I truly make the wrong move…?’

He had never intended to remain in Vallscrum. Had he not misplaced Gramdir, he wouldn’t have even considered returning. His original strategy was to secure enough gold for his travels and disappear for good.

But then the Salvation Order launched their assault, and he had witnessed the prowess of the Julien Mercenary Corps firsthand. Simultaneously, he had watched his father engage in battle.

If the Julien Mercenary Corps hadn’t intervened, his father would be dead. Because of their presence, he had witnessed Grondal’s true power and changed his trajectory.

Torvalt fixed a vacant stare on Ghislain.

‘So…’

He could conclude that the man standing before him was the reason his path had shifted. And that shift was now manifesting as this strange, clashing emotion.

Noticing Torvalt’s sudden lapse into a trance-like state, Ghislain spoke up.

“What is it with you? Why that expression? What has you thinking so deeply?”

“Ah—no, it’s nothing. Truly.”

Torvalt shook his head violently. All these internal sensations were surely just fantasies. How could he explain the irrational thoughts swirling in his mind? To label his decision a “wrong choice” was preposterous. Perhaps he was merely mourning the loss of the future he had once envisioned.

Yes, that had to be the answer. There was no logical reason to be this sentimental over people he barely knew.

Torvalt forced a smile and gave a nonchalant shrug.

“I was just worrying about how I’m supposed to handle my training from now on.”

Grondal responded with a thunderous roar of laughter.

“Puhaha! Stop worrying! I’ll push you hard enough to compensate for every day we’ve missed!”

Grondal was not known for gentle tutoring. Essentially, he was promising to train his son until he collapsed from exhaustion.

Torvalt could only shake his head. He had committed to this, but knowing his father’s temperament, the days ahead looked bleak. He might actually perish before he achieved any real strength.

Grondal gave Ghislain a boisterous nudge with his elbow and grinned.

“It feels like ever since the Julien Mercenary Corps showed up, it’s been one good thing after another.”

“Haha… do you think so?”

“Absolutely! You crushed the Salvation Order’s push, rescued a multitude of dwarves, and finally got my stubborn son to fix his attitude! We owe it all to your group!”

Ghislain offered a subtle smile and shook his head. He appreciated Grondal’s fiery, transparent nature—a man who was quick to explode but just as quick to forgive.

Eventually, Grondal, in a display of magnanimity, announced:

“Fine then. As a token of my thanks, I’m giving you Gramdir!”

“…I accept it with profound gratitude.”

“It is a prized possession of our royal line. Always ensure your cause is just before you unsheathe that steel.”

“I will remember that.”

The two men exchanged smiles. They shared a specific type of respect that only forms between warriors who have faced a lethal foe together.

Of course, the internal monologues behind those smiles differed slightly.

‘Tch. I really need to have a real match with this guy. He seems to have more refined technique than me. Still, I’ve got the edge in pure power and endurance.’

‘Ugh, if I were in my original body, I would have taken him down. In a fair duel, I’d definitely win.’

The two continued to grin while maintaining intense eye contact. Both were eager for a rematch, but not today. They would wait until they had fully healed and the circumstances were right—whenever that might be.

Shortly after, Grondal bellowed a grand order to the surrounding crowd.

“Prepare the highest quality weaponry and armor for the Julien Mercenary Corps! We will compensate those who stood by us!”

The dwarves nodded in agreement, viewing it as a matter of course. The news of impending rewards brought broad grins to the faces of the mercenaries.

And for good reason—gear forged by dwarves was of immense worth. Since it was a personal gift from the dwarf king himself, it wouldn’t be standard equipment; it would be masterpieces far superior to anything found in a common shop.

“First, we evaluate the damage! Once the repairs are finished, we will throw a banquet to honor our triumph! We must pay proper tribute to the fighters who spilled their blood for this land!”

In the culture of the dwarves, a victory feast was a sacred rite for warriors. It was an obligation that had to be fulfilled.

The dwarves immediately set to work fixing the battlefield and tending to the injured. The Julien Mercenary Corps joined in; despite their small numbers, their varied talents proved invaluable.

Once the cleanup concluded, the Julien Mercenary Corps received their lavish compensation: dwarven-forged arms and armor, along with valuable gems that would serve as ample funds for their travels.

In line with Ghislain’s focus, most of the equipment emphasized agility—such as specialized breastplates and blades—though there were also numerous functional items like leather gear and traveling cloaks.

During the victory celebration, Julien and Deneb finally regained consciousness and joined the festivities. The moment Deneb arrived, the dwarves erupted in a frenzy of cheers.

“The Saintess is here!”

“She is a divine gift sent to the dwarves!”

“With a Saintess among us, this conflict will surely end in our favor!”

The atmosphere was thick with uncontainable joy and celebration. Deneb, overwhelmed by the sudden adulation, remained flushed and embarrassed the entire time.

Julien watched her, a quiet smile on his face.

‘…Deneb.’

She had truly transitioned into a Saintess. She had actually channeled holy power. It was difficult to process, yet he felt immense pride. Now, the words of Ghislain and Astion didn’t seem like fairy tales—they felt like a tangible reality.

Deneb had finally stepped into her power, and now she could share her compassion with the world. She had always yearned to use divine strength to assist others. This role was a perfect fit for her.

However, a lingering shadow of doubt began to take root in Julien’s heart.

‘…Sacrifice.’

Ghislain had mentioned that the Saintess gave her life to shut away the Demonic Realm. Knowing Deneb’s character, she wouldn’t hesitate to make that choice.

He couldn’t permit that to happen. He had to grow more powerful.

‘I will be your shield.’

Julien renewed his silent vow. He would not lose Deneb.

*** For Ereneth, this feast was a completely novel and captivating experience. It was her very first genuine festival, and her initial hesitation quickly turned into delight.

While dwarves were legendary for their disdain for elves, they showed her no malice. They had, after all, fought side by side and gambled their lives for Vallscrum. Because of that shared blood, Ereneth was respected as a fellow warrior.

She stood back slightly, observing the vibrant crowd.

‘…This is actually enjoyable.’

It was a sensation she had never encountered in the stagnant, monochromatic world of the elves. This was a scene she had never witnessed.

The trek from the Elven Forest to this city had provided her with so much growth. And she knew that the path ahead would offer even more.

Ereneth closed her eyes and let a smile form. This journey with the Julien Mercenary Corps was profoundly rewarding. Compared to the longevity of elves, human lives were gone in a flash, but that brevity made them all the more significant.

She found herself wishing this journey with the Julien Mercenary Corps would continue for a very long time. That this fleeting spark… might burn forever.

*** *Crack!* “Guh—hrrk…”

A figure clad in a shredded black robe hit the dirt. Standing over him with a freezing stare was the High Chief of the Elves, Ereneth.

“Repulsive vermin.”

The man she had just dispatched was a priest belonging to the Salvation Order. They had lost their war and dispersed across the land—she was currently hunting these stragglers down alongside her elven kin.

Ereneth scanned the surroundings. Dozens of bodies were scattered across the earth, all of them silenced by her hand. There were more survivors from the Salvation Order than she had anticipated.

Even though Duke Fenris had broken their main force, they had once operated in the shadows across the entire continent. Their influence had seeped into almost every kingdom; their numbers were staggering.

Now, the world finally recognized the depth of their threat. Every nation had initiated a brutal purge, but like a plague of insects, too many remained hidden in the dark.

Ereneth sighed with exhaustion.

“Not a single one can be allowed to remain.”

They had successfully locked away the Demonic Realm. She had assumed that would be the end of the struggle. Even if the Adversary were to return, she believed they could handle it alone.

But reality had deviated from her expectations. The Salvation Order survived and eventually sparked a new conflict. Even without access to the Demonic Realm, they managed to tear open Rifts and call forth creatures from the spatial voids.

At this pace, the sacrifice required to seal the Demonic Realm would be in vain. Yes, the current state of the world was better than it had been a millennium ago, but if they grew complacent, civilization would collapse again.

‘I will not allow history to repeat.’

They had secured victory through blood and tears. That nightmare could not happen again.

The only saving grace was the rise of a powerful figure: Duke Fenris, the man who had obliterated the core of the Salvation Order. He possessed strength comparable to the legendary heroes of a thousand years ago.

It wasn’t just his power—it was his grit, his decisiveness, his ruthlessness toward enemies, and his brilliant tactical mind. It was a stroke of luck that such a person lived in this age. Even a thousand years ago, men like him were a rarity.

Still, it was somewhat annoying how frequently he attempted to dig into her history.

‘It’s pointless, Duke Fenris.’

What was the use of revisiting the past? It was settled. It was over. They had won the war ten centuries ago. The Demonic Realm was barred, and peace had been restored. That was the only relevant fact.

The same applied to this era.

‘The only task left is the total elimination of the survivors.’

Only then would the story truly conclude. The Salvation Order would be erased, and the world would know lasting peace.

‘And the elves and dwarves will finally find their freedom.’

Thanks to Duke Fenris, who now held the most power on the continent, that vision was slowly becoming a reality. Everything was moving as it should—provided Duke Fenris didn’t get distracted by unnecessary theories.

The path was already clear; there was no need to overcomplicate things. The destruction of the Salvation Order was the only way to protect the world.

*Flap.* Ereneth pulled her hood low over her brow. She projected her spirits outward in all directions, resuming her hunt for the cult’s remnants. Traveling the world wasn’t a chore; she had crossed the continent once before with her companions.

‘Yes… in those days…’

The Julien Mercenary Corps.

She had found her friends there. She had joined them and fought in the trenches with them. They were just green recruits back then, but they had survived countless ordeals to eventually lead the Great War.

It was no exaggeration to claim that the ancient victory was earned by the Julien Mercenary Corps. Ereneth felt a deep sense of pride in having been part of that group.

She walked with her eyes shut. The faces of her long-gone friends drifted through her thoughts. People she missed. Faces she yearned to see. She began to recall them one by one for the first time in ages.

Then, she stopped abruptly.

‘Astion…’

The legendary 9th-Circle wizard. A prodigy who had guided the growth of the Julien Mercenary Corps.

With his somewhat boyish looks, he had been popular with women, though he never seemed to reciprocate their interest. It made sense; Astion was always carrying a heavy burden. There were even whispers that the spirits he hosted had fractured his psyche.

Ereneth still wasn’t sure if those rumors were true, but Astion was always fatigued, irritable, and sharp-edged. People often noted that his most defining feature was the dark circles under his eyes. This gave him a sort of “troubled” magnetism that drew even more attention.

Regardless, as she thought of Astion now, Ereneth felt an inconsistency.

‘Why?’

She had envisioned the faces of her old comrades a thousand times over the centuries. Why was Astion suddenly the only one she could focus on?

A bizarre sensation took hold, and Ereneth’s brow furrowed.

‘Again…’

She pressed her palm to her forehead. That familiar headache began to throb. It was irrational. She had reached a level of power beyond human limits—how could she still be plagued by a common headache?

There had to be a reason. The fact that it triggered specifically when thinking of Astion meant the two were linked.

‘Astion… Astion…’

Ereneth delved into her memories. Again, she felt a sense of wrongness. Memories that used to be crystal clear now felt slightly obscured. Still, she persisted, straining to remember.

‘Astion…’

Had she lost a piece of her memory? Or was it something else? She clenched her teeth against the rising pain and pushed harder to remember his role in her life.

Then, a sudden question emerged.

‘Astion… was that truly his name?’

Astion was Astion. That was how they addressed him. Yet the name suddenly felt foreign in her mind.

‘How… did I used to speak to him?’

Did he have a different name? A title? Why—why now? Why did the name of a man she had known for centuries suddenly feel so wrong?

‘Astion…!’

*Thunk.* In that instant, something in her mind snapped and fell into place.

Ereneth’s eyes flew open. Then, in a voice that shook with pure shock, she breathed:

“…Ghislain.”