The Regressed Mercenary’s Machinations Novel - Chapter 801

Chapter 801
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The resonance of Ghislain’s blade meeting Count Braxian’s echoed through the air, sparks cascading from the steel with every collision.
In a mere breath of time, the pair had traded hundreds of strikes. As the duel stretched on, a flicker of uncertainty began to dance in Count Braxian’s eyes.
‘How is this possible? Why can’t I overpower him?’
The reputation of the Julien Mercenary Corps had reached his ears before. He knew they were regarded as a freakish collection of warriors, allegedly boasting a superhuman among their ranks.
He had even gathered fresh intelligence from those previously captured—claims that the group had spent nearly three years refining their skills under the direct patronage of a dragon.
Yet, Count Braxian had turned his nose up at such tales.
He had attained the rank of superhuman many years ago. He understood better than anyone the agonizing difficulty of crossing that threshold. While he was willing to concede that the Julien Mercenary Corps possessed raw potential, he firmly believed that a few years of training couldn’t possibly bridge the gap to his level of mastery.
‘I was certain of my triumph…’
He had held the conviction that, in a head-to-head encounter, he could best even a superhuman from the Empire itself.
And yet, the reality was stark—he wasn’t winning. He was struggling just to remain standing.
The Count refused to reconcile with this truth. A fire of indignation ignited in his gaze.
‘Do you have any concept of the sacrifices I made to reach this summit?’
Born into a disgraced noble house, his life had been a long sequence of indignities. To claw his way back to prominence, he had never shied away from the most repulsive or perilous assignments.
He had volunteered for the dirty work that others found beneath them, narrowly escaping the grave on numerous occasions. His hands were permanently stained by every dark deed required of him.
He was known as the kingdom’s hound.
Through that miserable existence, he eventually experienced an awakening, rising to the status of a superhuman. From that day forward, the insults ceased; no one dared call him a dog again.
His prowess, tempered in the fires of actual warfare, was considered the pinnacle of the Snowbur Kingdom.
But now, he was riddled with gashes and forced into a desperate retreat.
Clang! Clang! Cling!
Ghislain deflected Count Braxian’s weapon repeatedly, his counterattacks leaving fresh lines of red across the Count’s skin.
“It has been quite some time since I’ve faced a challenger this engaging. Your experience in true combat is evident.”
Viscount Horento had given him a summary of the man’s background, but the experience of clashing swords exceeded the rumors.
The Count’s style was feral yet precise—possessing a quality not entirely unlike Ghislain’s own.
His blade felt vital and reactive, a far cry from the predictable, textbook patterns usually displayed by other superhumans.
It was this quality that made Ghislain’s heart race. Eschewing the use of magic, he chose to engage the Count using nothing but pure martial skill.
Floating high above the fray, Dark gave a weary shake of his head.
“There he goes again. That same old vice.”
His master was a true combat addict. Once he started enjoying the rhythm of the fight, he would actually hold back his full strength just to make the pleasure last.
However, the current situation didn’t allow for such self-indulgence.
“Take him down!”
“Hem him in!”
“Charge!”
The infantry of the Snowbur Kingdom, having failed to contain the rest of the Julien Mercenary Corps, began to swarm toward Ghislain’s position.
Clash!
Brushing aside Count Braxian’s sword, Ghislain gave a small click of his tongue.
“A shame. Truly.”
Given a bit more time, he could have broken his opponent’s spirit entirely.
Naturally, if he chose to exert his full power, he could end the man’s life instantly. But that wasn’t an option he wanted to take.
He had already depleted a significant portion of his mana during the skirmish with the Imperial forces. He couldn’t justify burning through more when the nature of the upcoming battles remained a mystery.
This was why he hadn’t executed Count Braxian immediately.
His plan had been to save his energy and finish the duel using finesse alone. However, his comrades had managed their escape more rapidly than he had anticipated.
Ghislain drifted back a pace, his feet leaving the ground as he rose into the air.
Count Braxian, his uniform drenched in blood, let out a primal scream.
“You coward! Do you think I’ll let you flee?!”
Igniting his mana, he lunged forward, closing the distance to Ghislain in a flash.
The Count could not let him go. His orders and his future rewards were forgotten.
Being humiliated by some upstart youth was a stain he couldn’t live with. He was prepared to die if it meant salvaging his pride.
Vroooom!
A massive blade of pure aura erupted from Count Braxian’s sword.
“You won’t walk away after making a mockery of me!”
He poured everything into this single, decisive strike.
Yet, such a desperate, singular focus was useless against someone like Ghislain.
“How disappointing. Losing your composure like that… you still have much to learn.”
Ghislain slipped past the attack with ease and delivered a swift riposte.
Shlick!
A spray of crimson followed as a deep gash opened across Count Braxian’s face.
That concluded the engagement. Ghislain ascended toward the clouds.
His path was briefly obstructed by the shimmering magical barriers of the kingdom’s casters.
“Fine. I’ll take the ground route then.”
There was no point in getting into a mana-draining tug-of-war with a team of mages.
Ghislain dropped back to the earth and sprinted.
Boom!
He tore across the landscape like a bolt of lightning.
The fading glimmers of Deneb’s Wall of Light still hung in the air, providing a perfect screen for his departure.
Behind him, the Count’s enraged voice trailed off.
“Julien! I will have your life the next time we meet!”
Ghislain felt a smirk tug at his lips.
“I’m not Julien.”
The Count had evidently mistaken him for the leader of the mercenaries.
It was a logical error—Astion was the one world-renowned as a powerful mage, after all.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt.”
If the confusion served to bolster Julien’s legend, then he was happy to let it stand.
“Until our next meeting, Count Braxian.”
The reason for sparing the man was practical.
He respected the Count’s combat style—but more importantly, he was thinking of the impending conflict with the Demonic Realm.
Every superhuman was a vital asset. One with instincts as honed as the Count’s was doubly so.
He couldn’t just slaughter every talented warrior he crossed paths with. Unless it was a life-or-death necessity, as it had been with the Imperial Army, he preferred to leave them alive.
When the Snowbur troops tried to give chase, Count Braxian’s voice cut through the air.
“Stop! Do not follow him!”
Holding his bleeding face, he snarled,
“Pursuing him now only deepens our disgrace. We are withdrawing.”
Their objective had been to prevent the Julien Mercenary Corps from breaking through. While they had failed that, they had successfully tracked their trajectory. Technically, the mission was complete.
Besides, if the mercenaries caused chaos elsewhere, his own failure would look less significant by comparison.
He decided he wouldn’t be in a rush to report the details of this skirmish.
But that wasn’t the only motivation.
‘Such transcendental swordplay… I couldn’t even see the ceiling of his talent.’
The fight had provided him with profound martial insights. He felt an urgent need to return and meditate on what he had experienced.
If he could grow stronger, he might still earn enough glory in the war against the Demonic Realm to overshadow the shame of this day.
Moreover, he had a new purpose.
‘He won’t be easily slain.’
If that man managed to survive the reach of the Pope—
‘Then we shall finish this, Julien.’
That was the Count’s new fixation.

—

The military forces of the Kingdom of Flovitz had been commanded by the Empire to march into foreign territory.
They were positioned at a significant distance, much further than the armies of other nations that had previously been assisted by the Julien Mercenary Corps.
This was a calculated move. King Alex of Flovitz owed his crown to the mercenaries.
Following the mercenaries’ victory over Marquis Falkenheim, Flovitz had openly declared its support for them.
The Empire, well-aware of these ties, had fragmented Flovitz’s military and stationed them in remote outposts—all while placing them under immense pressure to intercept the Julien Mercenary Corps at any cost.
Despite their internal loyalties, Flovitz could not decline. Opposing the Empire’s mandate was a death sentence for the kingdom.
Among the commanders relegated to the fringes was Marquis Valesant, the man who had gained his title through Ghislain’s intervention—now famously referred to as the “elegant” Marquis.
Marquis Valesant squinted at the horizon with a look of feigned gravity.
“Truly, the ambiance today is exquisite. Why is the atmosphere so sublime? Heavens, look at that—the sky is utterly pristine.”
“……”
By his side stood his self-appointed soulmate and trusted aide.
Despite his rise to power, Valesant had refused to replace the man with a higher-ranking noble or knight, insisting that his long-time companion remain his right hand.
The aide checked their surroundings before whispering,
“My lord, word is traveling that the Julien Mercenary Corps has broken through. If we happen to cross paths with them, what is our plan?”
“Oh, I haven’t the slightest clue.”
“…Do you intend to engage them?”
The Marquis recoiled as if stung.
“Good heavens, have you lost your mind? Do you possess a longing for the afterlife? Have you forgotten the sheer scale of their lethality?”
“Well… no, point taken.”
The memory of their tactics remained vivid—specifically the time they used an army of a hundred thousand as a mere distraction to strike directly at Marquis Falkenheim.
Valesant had been the unfortunate captive dragged along for that ride. Looking back, however, it had been his lucky break.
Having seen their power up close, he had no intention of becoming their enemy.
The aide glanced toward the rear of the camp and murmured,
“But… the Imperial investigator is still watching us, isn’t he? We can’t exactly just wave them through.”
“Ugh, how tedious. I despise that man. He is utterly lacking in grace. He makes my skin crawl.”
Marquis Valesant made a face of pure disgust.
The presence of an Imperial inspector was a constant shadow.
The official story was that he was there to “coordinate intelligence,” but the reality was obvious: he was there to ensure the Flovitz army didn’t betray the Empire.
Such inspectors had been sent to every nation that had ever shared a friendly word with the mercenaries.
The Empire was leaving nothing to chance in their hunt.
In this predicament, meeting the mercenaries would be a disaster—they couldn’t let them pass, yet they didn’t dare fight.
The Marquis paced for a moment, then spoke softly.
“Regardless, the chances of an encounter are nearly zero, wouldn’t you say? The continent is massive; they could be anywhere. Besides, we are stationed quite close to the Empire’s borders. There’s no logical reason for them to head this way.”
The aide nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. It was true that a move toward the Empire seemed counterintuitive.
Still, a nagging worry persisted.
“But doesn’t the Julien Mercenary Corps specialize in doing the impossible? Last time, they went straight for the heart of the enemy at Marquis Falkenheim’s estate.”
“Oh, so you’re suggesting they’re going to march straight into the Pope’s chambers? Does that sound rational? Do you think the Pope is on the same level as Falkenheim?”
“I know it sounds absurd, but… what if they come this way as a feint? To disappear from the enemy’s radar, they might hide right under their noses…”
“Hmm… a valid point.”
The Marquis, desperate to avoid a confrontation, sank into deep thought.
After a minute, he snapped his fingers.
“We are relocating.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This position is on one of the primary escape routes predicted by the Empire, isn’t it?”
“It is. One of several key bottlenecks.”
“Precisely. Therefore, we shall move to a location entirely outside their projections. That way, the statistical probability of meeting them drops to effectively zero.”
“…But will the inspector permit such a move?”
“Leave that to me. I shall be exceptionally persuasive.”
Determined, Marquis Valesant glided toward the Imperial inspector.
He unfurled a map and began an impassioned argument.
“…Look here! If they appear, it is far more likely they will utilize this path I am indicating! How can I be sure? My dear fellow, I have bled on the same battlefields as these people. You cannot apply standard military doctrine to them!”
The inspector raised several objections. The Empire’s greatest strategists had meticulously mapped out the net.
But Marquis Valesant was unrelenting.
“For the love of all that is elegant! Do you honestly believe you understand them better than I do? I am staking my reputation on this! If they show themselves, this is where they will be!”
Worn down by the Marquis’s theatrical confidence and sheer persistence, the inspector eventually relented.
He chose to trust Valesant’s firsthand experience and his seemingly fervent desire to catch the fugitives.
Besides, the likelihood of the mercenaries being in this sector at all was considered low—the consensus was that they had fled to the far reaches of the continent.
Humming a tune, Marquis Valesant gave the order to move.
As the tents were struck, the aide looked pensive.
“Um… my lord. Do you recall? The last time we made a sudden, random move like this, we ran straight into them and ended up as their unwilling guests… it just occurred to me…”
Marquis Valesant gave a dismissive wave.
“They would never come this far. And even if they did, what are the odds of them appearing at the exact, arbitrary coordinate I pointed to? I literally just poked a random spot on the parchment.”
“W-well… that’s a fair point.”
“What are the chances of such a preposterous coincidence happening twice? If it did, it wouldn’t be luck—it would be destiny. At that point, I might as well propose marriage to the Julien Mercenary Corps.”
The Marquis was convinced of his logic.
The finest minds of the Empire had built this dragnet. No matter how strangely the mercenaries moved, they were bound to be caught in one of the primary zones.
That was why he had been so anxious staying in a designated zone.
By moving to a random, “incorrect” spot, his problems were solved.
‘And if they bypass the Imperial net? Oh, heavens, how clumsy of me. My apologies, I simply miscalculated. That should cover it, shouldn’t it?’
He was happy to play the fool rather than face the mercenaries.
Once the army had settled into their new, secluded position, the Marquis finally felt a sense of serenity. The tension of the last week evaporated.
He felt marvelous.
Then, a few days later—
At the very campsite Marquis Valesant believed was the most isolated spot on earth…
A group of disheveled, weary riders appeared on the horizon, galloping with singular purpose straight toward his position.