The Regressed Mercenary’s Machinations

Chapter 348

The soldiers glared at Ghislain and Arel with stern expressions.

"State your identity."

Ghislain casually glanced at Arel. Handling situations like this was the job of a noble’s attendant.

Adopting the haughty demeanor of a noble, Ghislain raised his chin and stared off into the distance. Despite having learned basic etiquette from Claude and Belinda, Arel still felt awkward as he stammered out a response.

"I-I’m Baron Dugley from the east? Um, well, we’re here because… uh… what was this line again?"

Arel fumbled with a note that Claude had written for him, titled "How to Introduce Your Lord to Guards When Passing a Gate."

Coming from a small village, Arel was unfamiliar with noble etiquette. He had only learned to read after arriving in Fenris, and even then, reading quickly was a struggle.

This made it difficult for him to act naturally, even with instruction.

The soldiers grew suspicious, lowering their spears toward them. Ghislain clicked his tongue in annoyance and stepped forward.

"We’re here on behalf of Baron Dugley from the east. We’ve come to discuss important matters with Count Mowbray."

"The lord?"

"Yes."

"May I inquire as to the nature of your business?"

"Must I disclose my business to a mere soldier? Especially matters to be discussed with the Count?"

Ghislain’s imposing glare caused the soldiers to withdraw their spears. They meticulously examined their identification and other documents before opening the gate.

As Ghislain passed by, one of the soldiers offered a warning.

"The lord has been on edge lately. You should tread carefully."

"Noted," Ghislain replied dismissively, continuing on.

Inside the city, the atmosphere was no different from outside. Every passerby wore an expression of gloom.

Arel looked around and whispered, "Do you think something’s wrong in the territory?"

"Not with the territory—something’s wrong with the lord."

"If it’s just the lord, why does everyone look so miserable?"

"When the lord’s temper is frayed, even minor infractions are likely punished harshly. The people must be treading carefully to avoid trouble."

Having grown up in a small northern village, Arel had never lived under the thumb of a temperamental lord. Although life had been hard due to barren land and frequent invasions by barbarians, Zwalter, Ghislain’s father, had never mistreated the people.

"This lord must be… quite frightening," Arel remarked cautiously, avoiding outright labeling the lord as tyrannical.

Ghislain shook his head. "Not exactly. It’s just that he’s facing problems beyond his ability to solve, and his frustration is spilling over."

"Frustration that affects everyone around him…"

"Exactly. Human emotions are fragile. No matter how much you try to control it, suppressing anger is no easy task. It inevitably influences those nearby."

"I see."

Arel nodded thoughtfully. He, too, often felt overwhelming rage when thinking about the barbarians.

Could he truly keep such anger bottled up without affecting others?

It seemed impossible. Anyone harboring deep resentment would, consciously or not, radiate hostility.

The more Arel thought about it, the more uneasy he became.

"Will it really be okay to meet a lord like that?"

From the secrecy surrounding their meeting, it was clear this wasn’t someone Ghislain knew personally. But the prospect of meeting someone so volatile made Arel nervous.

With only Ghislain and himself present—and his own lack of proficiency in mana—it was a daunting thought. If things turned hostile, they’d face overwhelming odds. Even with Ghislain’s strength, battling an entire territory alone was unfeasible.

Ghislain, ever attuned to Arel’s worries, let out a soft chuckle.

"There’s no need to be so scared. We’re not here to fight but to resolve the cause of his anger."

"The cause of his anger?"

"Yes. And to gain new power in the process."

Arel’s eyes widened in surprise.

To him, Ghislain was already an unbelievably powerful figure. The idea that he sought more power was unimaginable.

"Why? Are you curious?"

"…Yes."

Arel nodded slightly. Though he trusted Ghislain implicitly, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of power they were after.

Ghislain began walking again, speaking as he went.

"The Duke’s 7th-circle mage, Eloise, is a practitioner of the Illusion School."

"The Illusion School?"

Illusion mages were sometimes more troublesome than destruction mages because they could manipulate their enemies' minds.

While skilled mana users might resist, ordinary soldiers had no chance against high-circle illusion spells.

At higher levels, illusion mages could cast large-scale spells that caused armies to mistake friend for foe, leading to chaos on the battlefield.

Such mages were terrifying weapons during war, capable of dismantling entire strategies and commands.

"But most people don’t know Eloise is an illusion mage. Being a 7th-circle mage, she’s proficient in other schools as well."

"So she’s deliberately hiding her specialty?"

"Exactly, to unleash it at a critical moment. Imagine encountering it for the first time on the battlefield—it would be catastrophic."

"So, this new power you mentioned…"

"Our territory currently has no one capable of countering Eloise’s illusions. That’s why we’re here—to obtain that power."

"And it’s here in this territory?"

"Yes. Though it won’t come easily. It’ll take time, so prepare yourself."

Ghislain didn’t elaborate on the nature of this power, but the weight in his tone made Arel nervous.

He wanted to ask more but hesitated. A power capable of countering a 7th-circle mage had to come with immense trials.

‘I need to become stronger.’

Arel resolved himself. He knew that Ghislain had brought him here not only to train but to gain valuable experience. And given Ghislain’s track record, it was bound to be dangerous.

He stiffened his expression, determined to rise to the challenge.

Ghislain, noticing Arel’s tension, changed the subject.

"Also, solving the lord’s problem comes with additional benefits."

"What kind of benefits?"

"This lord doesn’t align with any major factions. If we gain his favor, he might join us—or at the very least, avoid siding with the Duke. Either way, it reduces our enemies."

Arel nodded, marveling at Ghislain’s ability to always think several steps ahead.

Others might question or criticize Ghislain’s methods, but Arel never doubted him.

‘If Lord Ghislain says so, then it’s true.’

For Arel, Ghislain was a godlike figure, his words absolute. And as a simple village boy, Arel lacked the knowledge to question him even if he wanted to.

The two continued their quiet conversation as they approached the lord’s castle, the oppressive atmosphere of the territory pressing in around them.

At the castle gates, knights and soldiers barred their way.

"Halt! State your business."

Their tone was more respectful than at the city gates; visitors to the castle were rarely commoners.

Ghislain smirked.

"I am Baron Dugley from the east. I’ve come to resolve the lord’s difficulties."

"Difficulties, you say?"

"Indeed. I am a renowned exorcist, after all."

***

Count Mowbray was never in a good mood.

It wasn’t because of his territory—his domain was thriving.

The estate had been well-managed, free of financial issues, and strong enough to deter any reckless invasions.

His concern was singular: his son.

“How is Edwin’s condition?”

“We discreetly summoned mages, but it remains unchanged.”

“And the secrecy?”

“They’ve been warned thoroughly. Even the smallest rumor would mean the destruction of the estate, and I swore I’d move my army to kill them if necessary.”

“Good. But we can’t keep silencing rumors forever.”

Count Mowbray took a deep breath, trying to suppress his anger.

The problem with his son, Edwin—his heir—had persisted for years, though it hadn’t yet become public knowledge.

From a young age, Edwin’s fragile nature had always bothered the Count, leading him to impose strict discipline.

But the stricter he was, the more Edwin avoided him, making it increasingly difficult to even see his face.

This only made the Count tighten his grip, controlling Edwin’s every move and reprimanding him for the smallest mistakes.

• "You fool! Are you telling me you can’t even do this much?"
• "Pathetic! Is there anything you’re capable of?"
• "How can someone like you be the heir to this estate?"

With each scolding, Edwin withdrew further. The more tense he became, the more mistakes he made, fueling the Count’s relentless anger.

There was nothing about his son that satisfied him.

Then, about a year ago, Edwin began exhibiting strange behavior—and eventually, he completely lost his mind.

Or rather, it was more accurate to say he became possessed.

He spewed curses in a grotesque voice and emitted a sinister aura. Could this be mere madness?

At first, the Count thought it was just insanity. He called priests and tried various remedies, but nothing worked.

But as Edwin began to exude visible waves of malevolent energy, summoning priests became impossible.

“Make sure there are no leaks about this.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There were rumors of possessions by malevolent spirits. Few had witnessed such things, but historical records told of similar occurrences.

The dark energy radiating from Edwin was the kind associated with black magic. If word spread, Edwin would face certain death.

Were it anyone else, the Count would have personally executed them in flames. But this was his heir, his son. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“I’ll go check on him myself.”

Count Mowbray began walking slowly.

The lord’s castle was vast, surrounded by a small forest and a lake. The rear of the castle, secluded and rarely visited, served as Edwin’s prison.

Only a handful of people had access to the tower where Edwin was confined: the guards stationed there, the servants delivering his meals, and the Count himself.

Upon reaching the top floor of the tower, Count Mowbray addressed the guards.

“Open it.”

At his command, the thick iron door creaked open slowly.

“Grrrrr…”

A low, animalistic growl greeted him.

The Count gazed at his chained son with a tormented expression.

Once a delicate and handsome boy, Edwin now resembled a desiccated corpse.

More horrifying were the black veins running across his body and his completely blackened eyes.

Who could look at this and not believe he was possessed?

The oppressive aura surrounding him was unmistakably unnatural.

The moment Edwin spotted his father, he sneered, his black-streaked eyes filled with malice. His voice, rasping and guttural, grated on the ears.

“Gr-r-rk… Does it not… sicken you… to see your son… living like this? Release me…”

At first, the Count had thought Edwin was merely pretending to be mad.

He had assumed the boy’s strict upbringing had driven him to stage this spectacle out of fear.

But as time passed, the symptoms worsened. Edwin had truly turned into something monstrous.

Had his son made a pact with a demon, like a black magician?

The Count shook his head. Not just anyone could form such a pact. Edwin had no knowledge of such things.

And yet, even now, the Count couldn’t stop chastising him.

“Pitiful fool. How weak must your spirit be to succumb to something like this?”

“This… is because of you. You never treated me… as human. Gr-r-rk… That’s why my mind… broke. Weakness… attracts things like me… so easily…”

“Because of me?”

“Yes… because of you. This form… this rage inside him… is all your doing. I… merely help him… release it. It’s all… your fault…”

Edwin repeated the accusation over and over, stabbing relentlessly at his father’s heart.

Count Mowbray steadied his breath several times before responding with difficulty.

“Do you not wish to leave my son’s body? If you desire a different vessel, I can provide one.”

The Count, desperate, even offered to supply another host. Criminals sentenced to death would serve the purpose well.

But the entity shook Edwin’s head unnaturally from side to side and rasped,

“I cannot… leave this body…”