The Regressed Mercenary’s Machinations Novel - Chapter 785

Chapter 785
The Julien Mercenary Corps maintained a state of high alert, their eyes scanning every shadow. It was a logical precaution; they were being shadowed by a massive syndicate of assassins numbering in the hundreds. Should that shadow collective decide to strike, the result would be catastrophic. Even for veterans of their caliber, the fallout of such a confrontation would be devastating. That was simply the nature of dealing with assassins—they were a relentless headache for even the most experienced soldiers.

Ghislain, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the looming threat. His focus was narrow and absolute: the development of Marika.

“Perfect. Keep that posture.”
“Yes, exactly like that.”
“Incredible. Truly impressive.”

His voice was filled with genuine wonder as he guided her. Perhaps it was a byproduct of her life on the edge of survival, but Marika possessed a level of concentration that was almost frightening. Even the talented Julien, Kyle, and Lionel hadn’t displayed such singular devotion. Marika was like a parched sponge, soaking up every drop of knowledge as if she had finally found her true calling.

For the first time in an age, Ghislain found himself truly enjoying the role of an educator. He couldn’t help but wish all his pupils were this intuitive. If he had to name his most exceptional student, he wouldn’t hesitate to pick Marika. Her talent was undeniable, but it was her grit and unwavering focus that truly made her a prodigy.

The admiration was mutual. Marika was floored by the depth of his expertise.
*He’s a monster,* she thought. *It’s as if he was sculpted from the very essence of combat. How can one person know this much?*

Having spent her life desperate for legitimate techniques and a proper way to circulate mana, she treated his every word as sacred. While others might have buckled under the weight of Ghislain’s brutal training regime, Marika didn’t so much as flinch.

*This is my final opportunity,* she told herself.

In her former life among the assassins, there was no time for growth, only execution. Now, she had the luxury of spending every waking hour perfecting her craft. To her, this wasn’t a grueling march; it was a sanctuary. Driving her forward was a motive more powerful than any manual: the burning need for vengeance. That fire, fueled by Ghislain’s elite instruction, caused her abilities to skyrocket.

Her rapid ascent didn’t go unnoticed. Kyle and Lionel were starting to feel the pressure.
*What is happening?* Kyle wondered, his brow furrowed. *She’s moving at light speed. Is she actually going to hit Transcendence before us?*
Lionel was equally rattled. *I think she might actually be stronger than me already. This is humiliating. I can’t let a new recruit outpace me.*

Despite her status as the junior member and her diligence in her chores, Marika’s combat prowess was growing faster than anyone else’s. Her presence shattered the previously relaxed vibe of the group, replacing it with a sharp edge of competition.

*It was bad enough when Julien reached Transcendence,* Kyle grumbled to himself. *I’m supposed to be Ghislain’s right hand! There’s no way I’m letting the rookie take my spot. I’m an Imperial Knight, for heaven’s sake!*

Without needing a single word of encouragement from Ghislain, Kyle and Lionel began training with a desperate fervor during every break. Even Julien found himself standing up for extra sets of sword forms. The energy was contagious; the entire corps was swept up in a fever of self-improvement. Even Osvald, usually the first to look for a nap, was feeling the heat and joined in.

Ereneth was equally unsettled by the change. *What has gotten into these people?* she thought, watching them. *They used to be so eager to slack off.* Her elven pride wouldn’t allow her to be surpassed by humans, whom she considered a lesser race. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself into the training sessions with renewed intensity. Only Deneb remained a pillar of consistency, offering her quiet prayers and tending to the group’s needs with her usual grace.

Ghislain watched this transformation with a smirk of pure satisfaction. *It all comes down to the right personnel,* he thought. One person, Marika, had shifted the entire culture of the unit. For someone whose goal was to maximize the strength of his followers as quickly as possible, this was the ideal scenario.

However, not everyone watching was pleased. From his vantage point in the distance, Darentz was seething as he observed the mercenaries.

“Those absolute lunatics…” he hissed. “Do they have any idea what the Pope expects of them?”

He had caught wind of the rumors—that they had settled a massive crisis involving the dwarves during their journey. By now, the Holy Father surely knew. Carrying two Sacred Stones was enough to put a target on their backs from every corner of the world. The news was traveling like wildfire. Who knew what other powers, beyond even the Salvation Order, might come hunting for them? They needed to find the final Stone and get back to the Empire immediately.

“How much longer are they going to waste time?” he growled.

The Julien Mercenary Corps seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, alternating between intense training and stopping at every small hamlet to perform charitable acts. Their progress was frustratingly slow.

“Infuriating…” Darentz muttered.

Because of his orders, every one of his agents was tied up in this observation mission. They couldn’t move on to other tasks until this was finished. Yet, looking at the mercenaries’ current pace, Darentz had no idea when this would ever end. He lived in a state of constant, simmering anxiety.

One afternoon, a small contingent approached him in the shadows.
“A message from His Holiness. For your eyes only,” one of them said, handing over a wax-sealed parchment.

Darentz took it with a heavy heart. They had been told to remain unseen, yet they had already compromised their position once by attacking. The Pope undoubtedly knew of that failure. Preparing himself for a scathing reprimand, he broke the seal—but as he read, his face changed.

There was no anger in the letter. The contents were entirely unexpected. Darentz stared at the words for a long time before channeling a spark of mana into the paper. It crumbled into gray soot and was carried away by the breeze. He looked out toward the distant camp of the Julien Mercenary Corps and let out a short, sharp breath. It was a sigh heavy with conflicting thoughts. For the first time, a new kind of tension gripped his features.

—

After weeks of their deliberate, slow-motion travel and constant training, the group finally reached their interim goal: the port city of Tulan. Situated at the continent’s northern edge, it was the gateway they had to pass through to reach their ultimate destination.

“Look at that! The ocean!”
“I’ve never seen the sea before!”
“Can we go in? Is it cold?”

The mercenaries were buzzing with excitement. Having spent their lives in the landlocked interior, the sight of the endless blue horizon was a revelation. For Julien, Deneb, and Kyle, who grew up in small villages, and even for Ereneth, who had known only the deep woods, the ocean was a source of pure wonder. Even Marika looked on with wide-eyed curiosity.

Ghislain was the only one who didn’t share the awe. He’d seen the coast many times during his previous life as a mercenary and found it unremarkable.

Osvald, unable to contain himself, sprinted toward the shore and dove headfirst into the surf. He’d grown up near a river and fancied himself a master swimmer.

“Ocean! Behold your master! Witness my revolutionary—”
*Splash!*
“Gah! Why is it salt?! My eyes! It burns!”

Leaving the sputtering Osvald behind, Ghislain turned to the others. “Let’s secure an inn first. We need a base of operations while we find a vessel to take us north.”

Their true goal lay across those waters: the frozen wastes. It was the realm of Arterion, the Dragon Lord—a place where humans were rarely welcome.

Ghislain led them to the most lavish establishment in Tulan. He knew that port cities offered culinary experiences that couldn’t be found anywhere else. After they had settled into their rooms and refreshed themselves, the group gathered in the dining hall, only to be stunned by the spread.

“Incredible! What is all this?”
“Is this all fish?”
“I don’t even know what that thing is!”

The table was overflowing with fresh seafood, the kind of luxury that was almost impossible to find inland. Usually, such things were the exclusive domain of high nobility due to the extreme cost of refrigerated magical transport. Most commoners lived their whole lives only eating salted or dried fish. Understanding this, Ghislain had opened his coin purse wide.

“Eat your fill tonight,” he told them. “We’ve worked hard. Order whatever looks good.”

A cheer went up as the mercenaries began to feast. The kitchen staff was run ragged trying to keep up with the group’s bottomless appetites, but they did so with smiles, buoyed by the group’s infectious enthusiasm.

“Herb-salted sea bream, straight from the grill!” the server announced.
“Amazing!”
“And here we have ‘The Sea’s Edge’—fresh herring sashimi!”
“Wow! It’s raw!”
“Deep-sea stew with octopus, clams, and abalone! Plus Fire Shrimp skewers and red-finned fish!”
“That looks terrifying! Give me two!”
“Who wanted the squid?”
“Right here!” Osvald shouted, though he looked slightly annoyed by the question for reasons he couldn’t quite place.

The group ate with a ferocity that left the other patrons staring in shock, while the innkeeper beamed at the mounting bill. After effectively emptying the inn’s larder, the party retired for a well-earned sleep.

The following morning, Ghislain began the search for a ship. However, the moment he mentioned the frozen lands, the atmosphere at the docks soured. Every captain they spoke to gave them a firm no.

“That is the territory of the Great One.”
“No man sets foot there without an invitation.”
“You’ll be dead before you see the ice. It’s a suicide mission.”

For several days, they went from one shipowner to the next, meeting the same wall of refusal. Even if they bought a boat outright, no sailor in Tulan would agree to man the oars or set the sails. Gradually, the locals began to give the party a wide berth.

“Those are the ones asking for the frozen north.”
“Idiots. The King forbids it for a reason, but there’s always someone who thinks they’re special.”
“They’ll find nothing but a cold grave.”
“They probably think they’re like the Pope’s messengers. Arrogance will be their end.”

No traveler had ever returned from that wasteland. The only exception were the Holy See’s diplomats, protected by ancient treaties between dragons and men to keep the Demonic Realm at bay.

Ghislain clicked his tongue in frustration. “It seems we’re stuck.”

The local merchants weren’t going to budge for a group of strangers. He realized their only path forward was to seek a formal audience with the regional governor to demand a crew. Just as he was about to lead the group away from the pier, a voice called out to them.

“I understand you’re in the market for a vessel.”

Ghislain turned. A man stood there, smiling pleasantly.

“The frozen lands, isn’t it? I believe I can assist you.”

The rest of the party looked relieved, but Ghislain’s posture immediately stiffened. He narrowed his eyes, his gaze turning cold and suspicious.

“Is something wrong?” the stranger asked, shrugging. “Do I have something on my face?”

The man was undeniably handsome—his hair was as white as fallen snow, his features were aristocratic and refined, and he possessed an effortless grace that turned heads all along the docks.

Ghislain remained silent, his eyes locked on the stranger. The others couldn’t detect anything threatening; the man seemed to have no aura, no killing intent, and no mana signature at all. Even those sensitive to spirits, like Julien and Ereneth, felt nothing. However, seeing Ghislain’s reaction, the mercenaries instinctively moved their hands toward their hilts.

The man noticed the change in the air and tilted his head playfully. “I’m offering you a ship. Isn’t that what you’ve been searching for these past few days?”

Ghislain didn’t blink. A strange shadow crossed the stranger’s face as if he had just solved a puzzle. He began to walk forward, his steps slow and measured, until he was standing directly in front of Ghislain. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Ghislain could hear.

“You… you actually recognize me, don’t you?”

Ghislain didn’t answer, but he knew exactly who stood before him. He had seen this face in the memories of a future a millennium away.

Arterion, the Dragon Lord, pulled his lips back into a chilling, predatory grin, his eyes fixed solely on Ghislain.