Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 484 - The Chieftain’s Relief

Chapter 484 - The Chieftain's Relief

The chieftain let out a sigh of relief.

The term "descent," the summoning of a god to this land, carried a weight that could bring dire consequences.

In the continent, particularly within the Holy Nation, uttering such words would instantly summon the inquisitors.

They would not stop until they had their quarry, ensuring the accused could never again chew meat, pulling teeth, fingernails, or toenails in the process while demanding:

"Confess to your heresy."

From the perspective of certain zealots, the entire Western region could be seen as a haven of heresy.

Were it not for the existence of the Sacred Demon Sanctuary, war might still rage between the continent and the West.

History recorded instances of the West and the continent waging wars over differing ideologies—conflicts born of religious discord, linguistic misunderstandings, and opposing philosophies on life.

Rulers, seeking to assert their will, often turned such differences into violent clashes.

Perhaps some rulers even used religion as an excuse to gain profit through war. But fortunately, this was not one of those times.

Who would dare to claim they would subjugate the Western heretics when the Sacred Demon Sanctuary was so openly revered?

Such a claim would mark one as mad.

Few would agree, and no one would take such declarations seriously in this era, where even the West's cultural uniqueness was respected.

Terms like "heretic" or "barbarian" were merely slurs to demean them.

Of course, Geonnara cared little about what others called him. To him, it was enough to revere the god he believed in.

"Rip them apart, devour, and shred them to pieces."

It was a curse.

From the blackened fragment of wood in Geonnara's grasp, dark smoke began to rise.

The smoke didn't disperse but instead coalesced in front of him, taking shape.

Its sharp ears stood out in stark white, contrasting with the rest of its pitch-black form. Amid the swirling dark smoke, the white ears gleamed distinctly.

"Go forth."

Blood dripped from Geonnara's mouth, his lips stained red as he issued her command.

The instant his words ended, the legless wolf of smoke surged forward.

Its undulating body made it appear as though it was running, despite having no limbs. Two white streaks, drawn by its pale ears, sliced through the air.

Awooooo!

The wolf's howl reverberated, shaking the very core of those who heard it.

In an instant, the black smoke darted past the tribespeople and sank its fangs into the thigh of a giant.

The target was one that had eluded Rem's axe by shifting sideways.

No matter how skilled Rem was, he was only one man.

Even without using any curses, it was impossible to singlehandedly hold off dozens of giants with mere physical ability.

Some of the giants had started to retreat, sensing an opening, and it was in this moment that the wolf emerged, sinking its teeth into one's thigh.

The smoky fangs pierced the giant's thick skin with ease. It was a surreal sight—the tearing of flesh visible through the smoky veil.

Crunch!

Purple blood splattered through the smoke.

Grahhhh!

The giant let out a scream, swiping at the wolf with its massive hands.

Though momentarily disrupted, the smoke reformed into its original shape.

Rip.

The wolf summoned by Geonnara ignored the flailing hands of its prey.

It bit down once, twice, relentlessly gnawing at the giant's flesh.

Chunks of flesh were ripped away, blood splattering everywhere. The wolf buried its head deeper into the mangled thigh, the giant's agonized cries becoming even more horrifying.

Aarghhhh!

This was expected.

A bite from a wolf was painful enough on its own, but the fangs of the wolf-god carried a curse of pain.

Each bite inflicted agony akin to needles driven under fingernails or fingers digging into festering wounds.

During the last giant incursion, the curse had failed, likely due to interference from an enemy shaman or mage, possibly a dog of the continent.

But this time, there was no such obstruction.

Even though Geonnara had prepared for potential interference, such a scenario made it difficult to imagine what countermeasures the enemy could possibly take.

***

"Damn it."

"Hey, you!"

"This...!"

The enemy leader could barely string a sentence together while fending off relentless sword strikes. His form flickered, skillfully evading Enkrid's strikes for now, but how long could that last?

Enkrid, the outsider, swung his blade with an unyielding calm that was unsettling.

'Should I avoid that sparring match with him?'

Even a bold warrior of the West could not help but feel dismayed at such overwhelming skill.

"Ugh."

Despite his fleeting thoughts, Geonnara couldn't suppress the bile rising in his throat and spat out blood. It felt as though his innards were being squeezed.

The summoning of the wolf-god had strained his body severely.

Before, he might have forced himself to endure for appearances, but there was no need for such pretenses now.

"Don't overdo it. You're a patient—just watch and let us handle it."

Rem's voice rang out from the front lines.

Despite the content of his words, the fact that he noticed him spitting blood from afar was oddly reassuring.

"Mind your own business."

Wiping his mouth, Geonnara retorted, though he doubted Rem even heard him.

The tribal warriors raised their spears high.

"The trembling earth. The trembling earth. Mother of the land, guide us, protect us."

Two shamans shook their rattles, murmuring prayers.

The sound was like that of children's toys to allies, but to the giants, it was anything but.

Guhhh...

The giants wavered, some staggering as though struck.

The shamans' chant was a sound-based curse that assaulted the giants' senses.

Between the wolf-god, the rattles, and the fearless Western warriors, the giants suddenly seemed manageable.

Unsurprisingly, the most overwhelming presence on the battlefield was still Rem.

"Don't get yourselves killed for nothing. Ayul, take charge."

Despite being in the midst of the giants, swinging two axes relentlessly, Rem issued commands with composure.

"Dallae, Maru, Tamu, and Altan, ready your slings. Lange, Naran, Gute, Tan, and Hun, prepare your spears!"

Ayul, the leader of the Western warriors, responded immediately.

When Geonnara was incapacitated, it was Ayul who had rallied the warriors and taken command. She was a pillar of the tribe, ensuring its cohesion in times of crisis.

The warriors rearranged their formation swiftly. Four took out slings, positioning themselves in pairs, while the rest readied their black-tipped spears.

The spears, tipped with obsidian blades, were fragile but ideal for a decisive strike.

The Western tribes were no fools; they had prepared well for such battles. Even without Rem, they would have fought fiercely, albeit with more difficulty.

Now, the battle seemed so manageable it could be observed from a straw mat.

"Huah!"

Among the chaos, a beastkin darted through the giants with movements that seemed almost divine.

Bounding off a giant's thigh, the beastkin soared upward, seizing a greasy tuft of hair and slamming an elbow into the crown of its skull.

Crack!

The sound of bone shattering echoed. The giant staggered, attempting to stay upright, but the beastkin, relentless, clawed into the fractured skull before leaping away.

Thud.

The giant collapsed with a strange, guttural groan, its mangled head leaking blood and viscera, signaling it would not rise again.

The chieftain rubbed his eyes, fearing that if this were a dream, waking up would be a loss.

Of course, it was no dream.

He knew that well.

The chieftain was no fool, unable to distinguish reality.

It was simply all too surreal.

In one corner, a figure flickered and danced through a storm of blades.

The wielder of those blades was the outsider, Enkrid, Rem's companion.

"All cultists are my enemies. I will destroy them all."

The Frog fought as though possessed, cheeks puffed up, muttering incessantly. Just hearing her words exuded an intense bloodlust. Alongside her was a beastkin battling a giant.

Yes, those three were outsiders; it made sense they could fight like that.

Even through the chieftain's eyes, their skills were difficult to gauge.

But the other one was different.

The hero candidate who had brought the outsiders—Rem.

The chieftain's gaze rested on one particular spot, where the returned prodigal son was chopping giants like firewood.

"An axe."

Each time one broke, a new one was handed to him, and he kept splitting logs without pause. The only difference was that the logs being cleaved weren't green or dried wood but rather the flesh of giants.

The man-eating giants that had threatened the tribe were being reduced to splinters, unworthy even of kindling, and dying one after another.

It would be a lie to say the chieftain didn't feel a sense of satisfaction.

He had endured this torment, barely holding on.

The pressure he had endured could crush a person entirely.

Sleepless nights, a suffocating chest, and a wildly beating heart.

His anxiety had grown so severe that his appetite vanished.

His face grew gaunt, his days bleaker.

If not for the ceremonial markings on his face, he would have looked like a corpse.

Such was the weight he bore, the hardships he endured.

The chieftain, more than anyone, knew the reality.

"We're doomed."

The dark clouds that hung over the western lands obscured the sun and blanketed the skies.

He had tried everything, anything, desperately.

Searching for smaller tribes to aid them?

He had prioritized that over summoning Rem.

Yet no one responded.

He had even attempted to secretly negotiate with the Seer Tribe, to no avail.

He was ready to promise them anything—to become a great tribe if that was their desire, to give them all they wanted, if only they would return and stop this madness.

But they wouldn't listen.

He had thought of seeking aid from powers beyond the continent, across the frontier.

But nothing went as planned.

Not securing help from other continents.

Not finding smaller tribes.

Nothing worked.

Day by day, the situation worsened.

A curse fell upon them, the eldest shaman collapsed, and their greatest warrior, Geonnara, was bedridden.

"Damn it all."

The chieftain knew escape was a viable option.

But how could he abandon the western lands?

This was the land they were born on, raised on, and where they would one day be buried.

Low clouds, high clouds, the sun-hiding clouds, the great lake, the sand-covered canyon, the Myr hills—he loved them all.

If this was the end, he would accept it.

Despair gnawed at his insides, leaving only a hollow shell awaiting death.

Then, at his lowest, when Rem returned, when the curse was lifted, and two giants were felled, hope appeared.

Yet, never like now.

The chieftain felt serenity.

Rem kicked a giant's ankle, and the chieftain watched.

The giant was twice Rem's size.

Normally, a kick like that wouldn't even make the giant flinch.

But this was different.

With a single kick, the giant lost its balance. Its ankle bone snapped audibly beneath its leathery hide, and it toppled sideways.

The blade of Rem's axe met the giant's neck.

Thud!

With a clean strike, dark purple blood spurted forth. The neck-cleaving blow left Rem coated in gore, grinning.

"Hey, there's less than half of you left now."

Rem said, the returned prodigal son.

He was different now. Without shamanic powers, without a blessed weapon, he fought. He fought astoundingly, exceptionally well.

The chieftain felt relief.

This battle—they had won.

Tonight, he wouldn't wake up in a cold sweat.

Even when the foreigner Enkrid first leapt into the fray, his heart, which had skipped a beat, now thudded steadily once more.

The relief brought by calm and safety.

Even as blood sprayed, bones broke, and screams echoed ahead, the chieftain felt peace.

Geonnara had coughed up blood, but his condition seemed manageable with a few days' rest.

The chieftain muttered:

"We've won."

Of course, it was a premature conclusion.

Luagarne hated the cultists yet knew her battles rarely ended with satisfaction.

"Can all cultists be slain?"

No.

"Can the cult be eradicated?"

No.

After losing her second lover, Luagarne had wandered aimlessly for a time.

She cared for nothing except killing cultists.

While it might have been logical to make their destruction her ultimate goal, she didn't.

"Because it was futile."

Setting that as her aim would ensure its failure.

So, she shifted her desires.

She pursued the unknown. It was a fitting alternative—equally satisfying and seemingly plausible.

From the outside, it might seem as though the Frog's desires stemmed from instinct or some inscrutable source, but her understanding was different.

"Where there's will, desire follows."

True Frogs cultivated their desires.

They expressed what they wanted clearly and pursued it with reason.

They weren't led by baseless whims.

"Ah."

It was a sudden realization.

A nightmare of her worst moments.

A faint trace of cultist influence.

Ultimately, she faced enemies destined to be lifelong foes.

Traveling with Enkrid wasn't unpleasant.

Exploring the unknown was enjoyable.

Someday, she hoped to step foot in the East.

She would complete the map her former lover had dreamed of.

Luagarne observed Enkrid wielding his sword.

Watching his daily life for so long had given her insights.

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"Explore the unknown."

"Destroy cultists."

How?

Whether there was an end or not, she would keep at it diligently.

Even if the end brought sorrow, she would savor the process.

A man wielded his sword with a smile.

Unrelenting, tirelessly training every day.

Croak.

Amidst her fury, Luagarne laughed.

But to the cultists, her mix of laughter and anger was indistinguishable.

"Crazy Frog!"

"Crush her heart!"

"Tear out her heart!"

The savages and cannibals howled ceaselessly.

Their intent was clear—she was to react to the word heart.

Luagarne stood firm, letting the irksome words pass her by.

One of them stomped the ground, magical energy flowing from his boots.

His body flickered and moved rapidly to her side.

It was an item enchanted with a high-speed movement spell.

She had encountered it before—when facing the Gnoll Colony.

Enkrid had been there too.

The memory surfaced, and she couldn't help but let out a battle cry.

Croak, croak!

The Frog's war cry.

Simultaneously, her Loop Sword slashed upward to her right, cleaving through the air where a cultist mage had just appeared.

Whoosh!

The powerful strike forced the cultist to retreat in panic.

"Tch!"

The cultist leader, a woman, gestured sharply.

The other cultists began to gather around her.

In the meantime, a one-eyed fairy lunged to stall for time.

Not a formidable opponent, but difficult to subdue quickly. It was a clever ploy to buy time.

"Summon the warrior's arm."

One of the cultists muttered, stretching a hand forward.

A black droplet formed at his fingertips, falling to the ground and expanding into a dark pool.

From it emerged a pitch-black hand.

A cultist spell.

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