Chapter 817

Chapter 817

“Do we take them out? They’re putrid.”
Dunbakel interjected the moment Rem finished speaking. Her intensive training in the East, combined with the brutal trials she had endured there, had evolved her sense of smell into a supernatural faculty. She didn’t just smell scents; she smelled intent. To her, malice carried a physical odor.
The foulness radiating from the trio was so pungent it made her temples throb.
“How can they smell more repulsive than Eastern monstrosities?”
She wondered if they simply neglected hygiene, though in her world, ‘cleansing’ went beyond water and skin.
“What use is scrubbing the flesh? It is the spirit that requires washing.”
The East was a sanctuary for the strange. She recalled a specific ascetic who had pledged never to spill human blood, focusing his blade only on beasts. He was rumored to be a cleric of the subterranean deity.
He preached that true purity only came from a sanitized heart. Dunbakel couldn’t explain the mechanics of it, but the result was undeniable.
“The stench of the abyss.”
That was what she caught from them.
“Cruelty, warped ambitions, and hungers so tangled they can never be unknotted.”
She detected several distinct layers of this rot—separate, yet sharing a common origin. It reminded her of the kinship between half-siblings who shared a sire but different mothers.
“A clumsy comparison, perhaps.”
Instead of struggling to articulate the nuance of the smell, Dunbakel made her stance clear.
“We’re leaving them alive?”
She pressed the question. In her eyes, they were contaminants that needed purging. Had they crossed her path in the East, she would have decapitated them without a second thought.
However, this was the Border Guard. Protocol dictated that others would move first. Furthermore, when she had nearly lunged earlier in a momentary lapse of control, Rem’s hand had been there to steady her. He had whispered a warning then:
“Are you trying to earn the reputation of the Eastern Slayer?”
Cool your heels. Rule your impulses.
That was the silent command in Rem’s slate-colored eyes. It was a reprimand she had heard once before from Anu.
“Conquering your dread is only the first step. Beastmen are more tenacious than Frokk. Without mastery over your own nature, your path is blocked.”
Anu had delivered that lesson while casually discarding a piece of tough, steamed monster hide. His subordinates had roared with laughter at the scene.
Back then, Dunbakel hadn’t learned the art of restraint. Life in the Eastern expeditions was a lesson in isolation. Survival meant hunting alone, eating alone, and standing on your own two feet. Without that self-reliance, no one survived the frontier.
They were nomads, constantly pushing into the unknown, with the central garrison being the only thing resembling a civilization. The silver lining was the scarcity of monster ambushes.
But the environment was merciless. It was a land of barren wastes where nothing grew. It wasn’t a desert, but a place where life was tethered strictly to the rare lakes—a truly hostile world.
Youths born in the East were forced into self-sufficiency early. They scavenged to live, and those who couldn’t prove their utility were left behind.
Anu often gathered these displaced children and sent them back toward the heart of the continent. His efforts to look after Enkrid and his frequent correspondence were extensions of that kindness.
“He possesses a big heart.”
Anu was a man of bridges. He carved out futures for those who had no place in his harsh lands, steering them toward the Border Guard so they might find a purpose.
Regardless, Dunbakel’s upbringing in that lawless neglect meant she lacked a natural filter.
“What? Should I take an eye? Gold-colored irises would probably fetch a fortune from King Eyeball.”
But here, Rem acted as her anchor of moderation. The man was a nuisance who stuck his nose into everything, guided by a sharp, analytical mind.
The same Rem who had checked her aggression now turned his attention toward Enkrid. Enkrid remained a statue. Quiet as always. He simply watched the scene with a hollow gaze. Rem didn’t need to ask why.
“Why the mercy?”
Rem was curious, perhaps.
Even if he didn’t share Dunbakel’s literal sense of smell, Rem possessed his own brand of intuition.
“Vile. Portentous.”
It wasn’t a matter of dark magic. To a Westerner’s sensibilities, these people felt like a morning where the sun refused to rise. They were the physical embodiment of a storm front.
The day was actually bright and the air warm, yet the atmosphere surrounding the strangers was the polar opposite.
“Actually, I’m interested too.”
The opposition had played their cards well. Setting aside the rumors of their eternal life, their mere presence was an irritant—a specific kind of friction Rem wasn’t familiar with.
“In the dialect of the Eastern beasts, they are absolutely rank.”
Most importantly, the scent was a memory. It was the aroma of the Demon Realm.
He had smelled a variation of it on Balrog. With Balrog, it was the sharp sting of acrid smoke, but with these three, it was the cloying, heavy rot of dead fish.
Rem wasn’t literally sniffing them, of course. His instincts, sharpened by his connection to sorcery, delivered the truth.
They were saturated in corruption.
It felt as though one of the Eight Gods was asserting his domain. A celestial commander who detested the depraved seemed to be whispering an offer of strength.
Rem pushed the impulse down, shifting his weight with a cocky lean and resting his heavy axe across his shoulders.
“Quite the collection of freaks, wouldn’t you say?”
Rem spoke under his breath. As was often the case with him, the three visitors—whether they were diplomats or trespassers—felt a chill of apprehension.
They saw a man who looked perfectly capable of splitting their skulls on a whim. He felt far more lethal than the warrior who had initially drawn a blade.
The sorcerer in the dark hat lowered his guard slightly. If negotiations failed, he would have to demonstrate his power through high-level casting.
Suddenly, an unexpected voice cut through the tension.
“We can offer you anything!”
Perhaps he sensed the escalating danger, or perhaps he realized he couldn’t let the situation spiral further. It was likely a bit of both.
The portly man shouted, his cheeks quivering with the effort.
He was a merchant through and through. A natural-born negotiator who refused to be intimidated into a bad deal. He had built a significant reputation in his trade. If he hadn’t, he never would have been entrusted as a messenger for such high-stakes propositions.
His professional instincts were screaming, prompting him to speak again.
Enkrid shifted his gaze. It was a cold look, but any movement from him signaled interest.
His voice lacked the thunder of Crang’s, yet it held a magnetic, persuasive quality.
“There is no rush for a final answer. When considering a deal of this magnitude, shouldn’t you carefully weigh the benefits and the potential gains?”
The man, who had been nearly invisible under the heavy atmosphere, suddenly found his footing. He shifted the momentum of the conversation. It was a momentum Rem could easily end with a single swing—reducing it to gore and splinters—but the merchant showed steel. A man who couldn’t speak under pressure wouldn’t have survived the journey.
“That is a remarkably valid point.”
A new voice joined the fray as someone entered the courtyard. A man with shimmering brown hair led the way, followed by his dark-skinned protector and partner, with Abnaier trailing behind—the man who, while not a turncoat, was working harder than he ever had before.
The sun shone down on the group. Abnaier took a silent tally of the three strangers, locking eyes with each of them and concluding they were formidable. He always made a point to measure an opponent’s spirit. Naturally, compared to the man standing in front, Enkrid, their presence seemed diminished.
“The one who downed Balrog.”
Based on what Kraiss had told him, Abnaier’s heart had been racing for days. To bottle up the Demon Realm, fortify the kingdom’s internal power, and build a lasting foundation—that was the path. With a solid core, the nation could hold its own against the Demon Realm and remain defiant against empires and foreign threats alike. That was Abnaier’s vision for the future. And what was the engine of that dream?
“The Knights.”
Or perhaps the mages. Specifically, those who existed outside the normal hierarchy—the elite few. He needed warriors who didn’t just fight, but who endured and triumphed; those who could clear a colony and keep their momentum.
To challenge the Demon of Strife? To win? And actually return? He hadn’t even considered it a possibility—yet the man who had achieved it was right there. Because of that, even the unsettling aura of the three envoys couldn’t shake him.
He wondered if Kraiss felt the same. He couldn’t be certain. Kraiss’s reaction to the news of Balrog’s fall had left a permanent mark on him:
“Listen, Ab—imagine you have a grand estate. The neighbor’s place goes up in flames. Wouldn’t you want to know who started the fire? At the very least, wouldn’t you want to know why it happened? Now, imagine you actually find the person who held the match.”
“And then what?”
“What do you do with a man like that?”
He might burn my house down next. That threat was always present. Abnaier was a master of tactical deception, a strategist who thought in layers.
“If I were in that position, I’d point him toward the enemies threatening my own home.”
“Exactly. Or you could just remove the variable from the equation entirely, right?”
Abnaier couldn’t map the full extent of Kraiss’s thoughts. He understood the metaphor of the fire and the house, and that Enkrid was the catalyst, but he couldn’t see the ultimate end Kraiss had in mind.
Kraiss’s voice snapped him back to the present.
“An interesting group. One of you is a practitioner of the arts, I assume?”
Kraiss wasn’t a knight, nor did he possess the strength of one, but his observation skills were peerless. He could read a person’s life story just from their clothes and their stance.
The man in the wide hat turned toward Kraiss. He looked weary of the day’s absurdities, yet he sensed that this brown-haired man was the most logical person present—someone he could actually talk to.
“Correct.”
Esther spoke up. Meanwhile, the warrior with the oversized sword struggled to his feet. His bravado was gone. Having been defeated so decisively in one exchange, he had no ground to stand on. In a real battle, he had tricks up his sleeve, but he was here as a diplomat. He had to follow his orders.
“The impact is still there.”
More importantly, that single strike had done internal damage. A lesser man would have perished. The force of that blow would have been felt by his master as well. Because of that, his master’s wavering resolve had finally settled. The choice between killing Enkrid or winning him over had been decided. It was no longer about elimination.
“Bring him to our side—at any cost.”
The mental link to his master provided the new directive. The swordsman stood up and quietly housed his weapon. The merchant began to speak.
“If I may, I would like to offer a proper introduction.”
He addressed the crowd with practiced ease, his body language confident and composed. He was a veteran of the trade, used to dealing with all walks of life. He was a high-ranking official of the Rengadis Caravan, a position earned through wit rather than steel.
“I am an emissary for the Lord of Maxim Spells and a faithful servant of Gold.”
He stood tall, openly studying the reactions of everyone present. He wasn’t hiding his scrutiny; he wanted to see who understood the weight of his words.
The beastman still looked ready for a fight; the barbarian looked completely confused. Enkrid was a blank slate, and the mage Esther was lost in a repetitive mutter about magic and people.
However, the brown-haired man and the green-haired man behind him seemed engaged. He saw a flicker of curiosity in their eyes. A veteran trader knows to start with the people on the edges.
“Win over the audience first.”
The brown-haired one, in particular, felt like a kindred spirit—someone who valued results over tradition. He was someone the merchant could negotiate with. He could at least deliver the core message. That was the whole reason he had come.
“Tell me, what do you know of the Demon Realm?”
The merchant probed. Information was his currency, and the first rule of a sale is to offer a sample of something the customer doesn’t have. By providing unknown facts, he could establish his importance. The other two envoys stood back, letting him lead. He was the better orator, though they were ready to step in if he fumbled. The merchant lacked physical power, but the protection of the other two gave him the confidence to speak freely.
“Within the Demon Realm, there are entities you refer to as demons.”
The word wasn’t quite a slur, but it wasn’t a term of endearment. The denizens of that realm had their own titles, but the merchant knew how to tailor his language for his audience.
“The Raven of Flames, the Provider of Harvests, the Companion of Heat, the Snowy Obliterator, the Exile of Cynicism.”
He let the names hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
“Judging by your expressions, these names are unfamiliar. These are the beings your world classifies as demons.”