The Regressed Mercenary’s Machinations Novel - Chapter 778

Chapter 778
Ereneth instinctively brought her hand to her mouth. With her pupils dilated, she whispered in a state of visible agitation. “Why… why would the name of the Duke of Fenris…” Why had he referred to Astion as Ghislain? Until this moment, she had possessed no recollection of that connection. It was the reason she hadn’t linked the Duke of Fenris to Astion upon their initial meeting; to her, he had been a total stranger.

But now, her thoughts felt tangled and chaotic. As her former perception of the past grew cloudy, fresh images began to rise to the surface. It felt as though she were suddenly grasping a memory that had been buried deep within. It defied logic. She was an elf who had transcended mortal limits. Given the natural longevity and memory of her race, combined with the heightened awareness of a transcendent being, the chance of her misremembering her own life was virtually nonexistent.

Ereneth ground her teeth together, exerting her will to force the old memories into focus. Yes, back then… “When our paths first crossed with the Julien Mercenary Corps…” At that time, the group had been nothing more than inexperienced fledglings. Truthfully, they resembled a pack of wandering vagabonds more than a professional military unit. Their registration as mercenaries had been a mere formality to simplify their travels.

They had happened to liberate a kidnapped elf, and for that service, they received an invitation to the Elven Forest. This event allowed the Julien Mercenary Corps to take up residence in the woods for a time. Under the mentorship of Iralniel, the group’s strength flourished. Julien in particular eventually mastered the art of spirit command, which caused the elves to view the group with even greater warmth.

“…They were decent people.” Though the elves typically shunned humanity, the Julien Mercenary Corps became a rare exception. They lacked malice, and Iralniel herself had given them her stamp of approval. During their stay, the Elven Forest seemed to vibrate with a new energy. However, that tranquility was short-lived.

“…The Salvation Order.” The peace was shattered when Rahamod, the prophet leading the Salvation Order, launched a massive assault on the forest using legions of orcs and practitioners of dark magic. The sect had orchestrated the strike over a long period, and the elven defenses were shattered almost instantly. In the final chaotic moments, Iralniel placed the seed of the World Tree in Ereneth’s hands. To Deneb, she gave the responsibility of the Blessing Stone. She then carved out an escape route for Ereneth and the mercenaries.

On that dark day, the Elven Forest fell to ruin, and Iralniel’s life was extinguished. After their narrow escape, the survivors encountered a group sent by the pope. “Lionel.” Lionel was among those representatives. He attempted to seize the Blessing Stone from Deneb, but she refused to surrender it—it was the final legacy Iralniel had died to protect. Lionel ended up trailing the Julien Mercenary Corps, trying to badger Deneb into compliance.

The mercenaries then set their sights on the dwarven realm, sensing the Salvation Order would strike there next. Yet Vallscrum collapsed even more pathetically than the forest had. “…Because of Torvalt.” The dwarven prince had absconded with the ancestral blade Gramdir. When Grondal discovered the theft, he abandoned Vallscrum to hunt down Torvalt himself. By the time he returned, having heard of the disaster, Vallscrum was already a pile of cinders.

The Eternal Forge was lost, but the Salvation Order had failed to secure the Sacred Stone. Grondal, having salvaged the stone from the wreckage, eventually delivered it to the Saintess. From that point on, he lived only for vengeance, battling the Order until his final breath. “Torvalt…” That prince had eventually stumbled upon the Julien Mercenary Corps and joined their ranks. Burdened by the weight of Vallscrum’s fall, he spent his years consumed by remorse.

Like Grondal, he lived for retribution. He refused to part with Gramdir, the lone relic of his lost home. He sought to hone his skills by training under Julien and Kyle, becoming a rare dwarven master of the blade. Eventually, he reached the state of transcendence and became a legend during the Great War. Yet, despite fighting on the same side, Grondal and Torvalt never spoke a single word to one another until their deaths.

“And then…” Ereneth suddenly grabbed her temples. The memories following those events were becoming a blur. Or rather, different memories—and foreign sensations—were weaving themselves into her mind. Were these truly her own recollections? Doubt began to fester. Everything felt distant, as if she were observing the life of a stranger from a distance. It was the detached perspective of a spectator watching a drama unfold on stage.

A drop of blood fell from her nose.
“High Chief!”
“What is happening?!”
The panicked elves scrambled toward her. Ereneth raised a hand, signaling for them to stay back. She pushed her focus deeper, trying to unravel the knots in her consciousness.

“…The Elven Forest.” It hadn’t been destroyed. The Julien Mercenary Corps hadn’t been invited after a rescue; they had arrived as papal delegates and were initially turned away. Then, that madman Astion had infiltrated the forest to steal the Blessing Stone. Ultimately, with the mercenaries’ assistance, they had successfully beaten back the Salvation Order’s assault. Though Iralniel was left weakened from exhausting her power, she had survived. Afterward, with Iralniel’s blessing, Ereneth had set out with the Julien Mercenary Corps.

“…Vallscrum.” It remained standing as well. Once more, the mercenaries had stood with the dwarves. Grondal and the group had crushed the Salvation Order’s invasion. From that conflict, the world gained the Saintess. Torvalt didn’t become a guilt-ridden exile; he stayed in Vallscrum and became a respected warrior.

Yes, this was the reality. Because of the Julien Mercenary Corps, the tragedies had been averted—this was the true memory. Ereneth was certain. So what were those other thoughts? Where did those grim memories originate? “No…” Her frame began to shiver. The Saintess hadn’t appeared in Vallscrum. Her rise occurred much later, on a different field of battle.

The timelines were overlapping and warping. Something was profoundly wrong. Where did the first set of memories come from? What was the truth, and what was the illusion? Ereneth tilted her head back toward the sky and surveyed her surroundings. It felt wrong. Suddenly, the world around her felt so alien it sent a shiver through her. It was as if she were a foreign object placed into this reality. Yet, she was a being of transcendence, perfectly in tune with the world.

— “Sister! It’s me, Astion!”
‘…’
— “Sis, I know everything about you! I remember you promised we’d date!”
‘…Astion?’

At that sudden mental image, Ereneth felt her resolve waver. The Astion she recalled was a prickly, ill-tempered individual. He was never warm or particularly pleasant, just a brooding sorcerer plagued by chronic pain. He had never behaved so foolishly. And yet… why did that memory of him feel more precious, more real? Without realizing it, Ereneth began to weep even as a smile touched her lips.

‘Ghislain…’
Why had she addressed Astion by that name? The confusion was overwhelming. Her mind remained a battlefield of conflicting histories. New memories and emotions she had never known continued to flood her. The past she once leaned on was becoming a ghost. Then, a realization struck. This entire shift had started the moment the Duke of Fenris lost consciousness.

‘He certainly…’
After they had witnessed the Heart of the Demon Realm within the Forest of Beasts, he had questioned her.
— “You mentioned you once traveled with the Saintess, didn’t you?”
— “Yes.”
— “The Saintess told me we had met before. That we’d meet again. So… have you ever met me before?”
— “Are you losing your mind?”
— “…”
— “The Saintess and I were on the battlefield a millennium ago. How could you have possibly met her?”

Yes, that exchange had definitely occurred. A cold dread washed over Ereneth. Within the Duke of Fenris’s mind, she had sensed a ‘gateway’ forged of holy power. She didn’t understand its nature, but she suspected his soul had been pulled through it. ‘Could it be…’ If he had truly encountered the Saintess… if they had actually met a thousand years in the past… then these memories…

Ereneth spoke in a hollow, dazed tone. “Ghislain… it really is you…”

—

“Ghislain! You truly are incredible!”
Ereneth laughed as she threw her arms around Ghislain’s neck from behind. Ghislain, however, gave a sharp shrug of his shoulders to shake her off, looking utterly bored. “Let go. You’re making me hot.”

At his cold dismissal, Ereneth puffed out her cheeks and glared. She genuinely found him remarkable. They had triumphed in a conflict she originally thought was a lost cause. Specifically, his tactical placement of their allies to keep losses at a minimum was a stroke of genius she hadn’t anticipated. Only someone as daring as Ghislain could have pulled it off. The more she observed him, the more he fascinated her. She had tried to be nice, but to be met with such apathy!

‘That’s odd. Don’t human men enjoy this?’
She was sure she’d heard that human males liked it when elves were affectionate. She had even seen it in books. But the reality was disappointing. Ghislain seemed completely immune to her charms. Meanwhile, that other side of him, ‘Astion,’ had been utterly devoted to her.

As Ereneth brooded, Osvald, who was nearby gathering his gear, made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Tsk, tsk. You shouldn’t try to get your way just because you have a pretty face. Have you forgotten Lady Iralniel’s teachings? That looks are secondary?”

“……Excuse me?”
Ereneth looked shocked. She had only been trying to build a bond with Ghislain by using what she knew of humans. And to be lectured on vanity by the same man who had obsessed over Julien’s looks—she was at a loss for words.

Osvald ignored her and looked at Kyle, who was also busy packing. “Brother, doesn’t it seem odd when you think about it? Looking at Sister Ereneth just gave me a groundbreaking realization.”
“…What now?”
“If you make a lot of money, you pay higher taxes, right? Everyone agrees that’s fair.”
“…I suppose.”
“Then why don’t attractive people pay taxes? Shouldn’t there be a beauty tax for the sake of equality? Especially for elves—they should be taxed double or triple.”
“……”
“Right? Wouldn’t that be just? Don’t you agree, Brother?”
“…I don’t have an opinion on that.”
“Tsk, tsk. This is why we are in desperate need of a revolution and ideological change. If I had the authority, I’d round everyone up and…”

As Osvald’s rhetoric became more radical, both Ereneth and Kyle looked at him with distaste. He was always rambling about seizing power and uprising, but his tone was becoming increasingly alarming. Osvald, unbothered, continued to mutter to himself.

“A revolution is the only way… I need to find like-minded souls and arm them… I should document these thoughts. One day, I will establish a ‘Revolutionary Corps.'” Osvald produced some parchment and a quill, scribbling down his philosophies. Everyone else took a collective step back. There was no point in being associated with his madness.

Ghislain usually ignored Osvald’s outbursts. He had long ago accepted that the world was populated by all sorts of eccentrics. However, lately, the frequency of the word “revolution” in Osvald’s speech was hard to ignore. ‘No… could he be the one? No, that’s impossible.’

He thought of a specific group that would cause chaos across the world in the distant future. It seemed like a reach. The notion that Osvald’s fringe ideas could survive a thousand years was ridiculous. ‘Even if he writes it down, paper doesn’t last that long. It’s likely just a coincidence of similar ideas. Anyone can think like that.’ Ghislain put it out of his mind. He figured it was just his mind playing tricks, a byproduct of how the past had influenced the future in things like the ‘Black Mage Duck Incident.’

Yet, despite Ghislain’s skepticism, Osvald kept writing with a secret intensity. ‘I might not live to see the revolution. If I get the chance, I’ll place a preservation spell on these texts. That way, my legacy can be passed down. Since I travel so much, I could even etch these ideas into stones across the land. Someone will find them and be moved to start the fire.’

He felt a surge of ambition, hoping his philosophy would endure. ‘Revolutionary Osvald. That has a nice ring to it. A man must be a thinker, after all.’ Osvald felt quite proud, imagining himself as a legendary scholar.

With those unsettling whispers in the background, the Julien Mercenary Corps finished their preparations and got ready to move out. Grondal gripped Ghislain’s hand firmly. “We will cross paths again, I trust? Then we can finally determine who is truly superior.”
“I look forward to it. It will be a fair fight.”

Both men were absolutely certain of their own victory. Perhaps that was why, despite their smiles, they were trying to crush each other’s hands. The handshake went on for a hilariously long time. Their faces remained calm, but their knuckles were white and their muscles were twitching from the strain.

“…Father, that’s enough.”
“…Ghislain, stop.”

Only when their companions pulled them apart did they release their grip. Their hands were bloodless, but they acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The Julien Mercenary Corps departed Vallscrum to the cheers of the dwarves.

This leg of the journey was another triumph. They had secured the Sacred Stone and won the loyalty of the dwarven nation. The mercenaries would now have the backing of both elves and dwarves when the Great War arrived. But Ghislain wanted more. ‘The Julien Mercenary Corps must be the pivot of this war.’ Only then could he ensure the conflict followed his design and prevent any betrayals.

Ghislain unrolled his map. The next leg of their journey was long. It had to be—their destination was a wasteland, a place where no human was meant to survive. And there, they would find… the keeper of the final Sacred Stone outside of human hands.

‘…We meet again.’
An encounter that was not a memory of the past, but a vision of the future. The entity that had torn the heavens apart and heralded the apocalypse. The ultimate dragon that had been the bane of humanity. ‘Dragon Lord, Arterion.’ It was finally time for their confrontation.