The Regressed Mercenary’s Machinations (light Novel)

“Arghhhh!”
“Please spare me!”

“At least, let me live...!”
The capital of Grimwell had turned into a slaughterhouse for days on end. Rank and guilt held no meaning in this bloodbath.
Literally, everyone was dragged away and killed indiscriminately. Some attempted to resist and gather forces, but they were no match for the Salvation Order.

The capital square was dyed red with blood. So much blood flowed that the soldiers’ ankles were perpetually submerged, as if a flood had overtaken the ground.
In the center of the blood-soaked square stood a small pedestal. On it lay a single, unassuming bracelet.
When not even a single living animal remained in the capital, Gatros gathered all the priests and issued an order.

“Begin the ritual.”
Dozens of priests assembled, reciting the visions of the Salvation Order.
Hummmmmm...

A dark aura radiated from the magic circle, greedily absorbing the surrounding blood.
The circle, ravenous for blood, soon glowed with a vivid crimson hue. Slowly, the blood began creeping up toward the pedestal where the bracelet lay.
As the blood reached the pedestal, it began to seep into the bracelet.

Gatros watched the scene with a tense expression.
Please...
If that bracelet turned out not to be a holy artifact, it would instead be stained with crimson, becoming yet another cursed object like the Orb of Life.

Creating another cursed item like that wasn’t the point of all this. It would have been an utter waste.
But if it truly was a holy relic...
Flaaash!

Suddenly, an unimaginably bright light burst forth from the bracelet.
It was the same light he had seen in Ruthania. The divine power hidden within it rejected the aura of the magic circle. The blood that had been seeping into it writhed and squirmed as it was blocked by the sacred light.
This was a power strong enough to devour ordinary holy relics in an instant.
Gatros shot to his feet.

“Ha, haha... Hahahahaha!”
He laughed like a madman. He had found it. After so many years of yearning and countless sacrifices, he had finally found the holy relic.
The light spread endlessly in all directions, as if proclaiming its presence to the world.

Gatros shouted with fervent conviction.
“O King! O King! Feel this light! We long for the day we meet!”
Somewhere in this world, their king existed. It was foretold and prophesied. Awakening the king’s “memory” was the mission of the Salvation Order, and they needed the holy relic to achieve that.

“Dispel the energy! Quickly!”
The priests halted their chants, and the aura of the magic circle gradually began to subside. The blood that had climbed up the pedestal slid back down, and the light emanating from the holy relic slowly dimmed.
Gatros carefully picked up the bracelet and clasped it around his wrist, wearing an expression as though he were holding the most precious thing in existence.

From a short distance away, Aiden watched the scene and shook his head.
“Ugh, filthy.”
The stench, the sticky humidity, and the sight of blood pooled so deep it filled the entire square.

To Aiden, there was nothing artistic about this.
He didn’t mind blood, but if it wasn’t for his glorification, he saw no reason to appreciate something so messy and chaotic.
In truth, Aiden had no interest in or sympathy for the cult.

Of course, outwardly, he played the role of a devout member of the Salvation Order.
Shrugging his shoulders, Aiden turned to Leonard, the commander of the Revolutionary Corps, who stood next to him with arms crossed.
“What do you think? First time seeing such a ritual? It’s filthy, sure, but it’s quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“...”
“Well, I get it. It’s hard to understand at first. Just think of it as their tradition. No need to give it too much thought.”
“...Yeah.”

Leonard gave a short response, effectively ending the conversation. In truth, his mind was too preoccupied to focus on the ritual.
After the failed surprise attack, he had been humiliated. Though others didn’t openly say it, the atmosphere around him made it clear.
The unspoken sentiment was clear: Why did you act alone and lose your troops to the Fenris Duke?

Damn it...
He couldn’t deny it. He had been thoroughly outmaneuvered. It was as if the Fenris Duke had read his mind and anticipated his every move.
But what weighed on him more heavily was something else entirely.

Julien.
The man who wielded techniques beyond imagination. Leonard still couldn’t comprehend how such techniques were possible.
He had always prided himself as one of the continent’s strongest individuals. He believed he could take on anyone in a one-on-one fight.

That belief had been shattered after encountering Julien.
Leonard let out a quiet sigh.
They are strong, no doubt...

The Salvation Order’s forces were formidable. The Atrode army, too, was remarkably strong. And his Revolutionary Corps had joined the fight.
With this much strength, they were confident they could crush any coalition. At first, they had believed victory was theirs.
The Fenris Duke, Julien...

That was until they met those two.
Both of them exceeded all rumors. The worst part was that Leonard still hadn’t fully understood the extent of their power.
Leonard glanced at Gatros. The man was still standing in the blood-soaked square, gazing at the bracelet on his wrist with a look of reverent ecstasy.

Is this really the end of the world? A land full of lunatics...
All Leonard had wanted was a kingdom of his own. To achieve that desire, he had no choice but to align himself with the Salvation Order.
Yet despite the cult’s immense strength, they were fixated on some elusive “king,” drafting reckless strategies and squandering countless soldiers in their pursuit.

Is this really a war we can win by finding one person? Isn’t that something you do after the war is over?
Leonard couldn’t understand it. The king wasn’t even a conventional ruler but some kind of religious figure.
And he had also learned something while working with them.

The Salvation Order’s king had another title: the Adversary of the Goddess.
They want to fight a goddess.
Leonard shook his head.

They hadn’t even conquered the continent yet, and here they were, arrogantly dreaming of fighting a divine being.
From what he had seen, there was something real about their power. But for now, it all seemed like a ludicrous delusion.
Regardless, having allied himself with them, he had no choice but to fight against the coalition forces. And one thought dominated his mind.

Julien.
The monster.
Figuring out how to kill him was the only thing that mattered.

***
“Waaaaah! We’ve won!”
The allied forces led by Julien cheered as they seized the Atrode fortress.

It had been an overwhelmingly easy victory. The enemy was weak, and on their side stood Julien, an absolute force of power.
As the soldiers tended to the wounded and organized the battlefield, Julien, observing everything, felt an odd sensation.
“Hmm.”

An inexplicable presence surrounded him. The energy was so distinct and intense that it was impossible to ignore.
Julien slowly turned his head in the direction of the feeling.
And there, he saw them.

Rustle. Scratch.
Several people had gathered around him, furiously sketching drawings of him.
“...”

They were individuals sent by Claude, the overseer of the Ruthanian forces. Ever since the allied forces had split, these artists had been following Julien everywhere, constantly sketching him.
They had introduced themselves as “war record scribes,” and at first, Julien hadn’t thought much of it. It was common for scribes to document battles during wartime.
But they were excessive. At first, he had ignored it, but as time went on, their increasingly blatant observation made him curious enough to ask.

“...Is this necessary?”
Hearing Julien speak—a rare occurrence—one of the artists answered with a look of pure reverence.
“Yes! We have been given the honor of recording everything about Julien-nim in great detail... No, wait! I mean, we have been tasked with documenting this war in great detail, so we cannot afford to miss a single moment!”

“...”
Hearing the artist’s response, Julien simply closed his mouth again.
They claimed they were recording the war, but they were only drawing him. Nothing else.

Julien turned his head and looked in the other direction. There, scribes assigned as chroniclers were diligently writing about him.
It was absurd enough that Marquis Gideon, the commander of the Turian forces, had once summoned the “head scribe” to question him.
— “Why is it important to note what Julien-nim ate today?”

— “To ensure that Julien-nim is maintaining a balanced diet...”
— “And why is that your concern?”
— “Because Julien-nim is an important figure...”

— “Then why are you taking away his discarded belongings?”
— “To reduce waste and promote environmental preservation, of course...”
— “Why are you recording how many times he brushed back his hair?”

— “To document Julien-nim’s ‘magnificence’...”
— “...”
— “...”

At that point, neither side had much else to say.
The scribes were simply that enthusiastic. How such obsessive details related to recording the war remained a mystery.
Suspicious as it was, Marquis Gideon couldn’t exactly order them to stop.

Damn that Claude...
The so-called “second-in-command” of the Ruthanian forces had orchestrated this, and Gideon wasn’t in a position to refuse.
Besides, the information they recorded wasn’t of any real importance. They were just endless praises and accounts of Julien.

Though Julien himself had no interest in such things, his popularity had grown to an almost incomprehensible level.
An abandoned prince with a tragic background, elegant and dignified gestures, a face sculpted as though by the gods, and an air of mystery.
And on top of that, his almost unbelievable strength.

People of all ages were enraptured by him, and many considered it their life’s dream to catch even a glimpse of Julien.
It was understandable. After all, the world was practically being reshaped by Julien and Ghislain.
Claude, as always, saw this as a business opportunity.

— “You know it works, right? We’ve done it before. This stuff sells like crazy.”
Portraits of Julien, personal information, and even items he had used were sold off by Claude’s network like wildfire.
Despite the absurdity, no one in the midst of war had the time or attention to intervene.

Having once failed after being caught by Ghislain, Claude had learned from the Salvation Order and the Revolutionary Corps, restructuring his operations into a tight-knit cell system to avoid detection.
And so, Julien marched on with his so-called war scribes in tow.
Unlike the Ruthanian forces, which had the overwhelming strength to rely on meteor tactics, Julien’s incomprehensible power enabled him to carry out other strategies.

“Fire!”
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Marquis Gideon gave the order, and the allied forces began launching stones with their trebuchets.

However, the sheer number of trebuchets here wasn’t enough to completely destroy the fortress. The bombardment mainly served to harass the soldiers on the walls.
Still, the Turian forces held the advantage. The Atrode forces lacked the mages necessary to repel magical attacks.
Boom! Boom! Booooom!

The combination of trebuchet fire and magic inflicted heavy losses on the fortress’s defenders, but the Atrode forces, abandoning magical defense, fought back fiercely.
Given more time, the Turian forces could undoubtedly capture the fortress with minimal losses. The disparity in strength was simply too great.
But Julien had no intention of dragging this out. Taking more time wouldn’t eliminate casualties entirely.

“I’m going in.”
Once the enemy forces on the wall had thinned out sufficiently, Julien charged forward alone. Behind him, fully armed knights followed closely.
Seeing the small group rushing toward the fortress, the enemy commander shouted.

“Kill them!”
Whoosh!
Arrows rained down from the walls. But what the defenders saw next left them dumbstruck.

“W-What is that?!”
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The knights following Julien raised their shields, deflecting or absorbing the arrows. Some relied on their armor, letting the arrows glance off them—nothing out of the ordinary in warfare.

But the man at the very front...
Thump, thud, thunk.
The arrows flying toward him suddenly veered off course, embedding themselves harmlessly into the ground. Julien didn’t do anything—he just kept running.

Ordinary superhumans might destroy or deflect arrows with sheer power. Many would even dodge to conserve mana.
But Julien did nothing, and yet the arrows avoided him as if he were a force of nature.
“W-What?! What the hell is that?!”

The soldiers atop the walls fell into chaos.
They had stopped attacking, stunned into silence as they watched the impossible scene unfolding before them. Shocked and bewildered, they simply stared.
Julien reached the gates of the fortress and drew his sword.

The blade shimmered with a brilliant blue light—far more intense than usual, blindingly vivid. It was clear that he had infused a significant amount of energy into it.
With his sword in hand, Julien swung toward the massive gate blocking his path.
Slash!

Rumble!
The fortress gate split cleanly in two and collapsed to the ground.