The Regressor Wants to Become a Hero

Chapter 123

The man’s identity, no matter what anyone said, was undeniably that of the White Owl.

Ian glanced at Eor.

“…Hmm.”

Eor squinted his eyes, stroking his chin with a doubtful expression.

Given Eor’s status as not just any priest but a Judicator, Ian thought he might be able to discern whether the man was a Battle Wraith at this distance. However, it seemed that even Eor could not be certain.

“Hey, come on. Was my question that difficult? I’m asking, who are you?”

At the man’s impatient urging, Eor gestured with his chin—a signal for Ian to handle it himself.

Without complaint, Ian stepped forward. After all, he was currently carrying out the Judicator’s duty in his stead.

“I come from the Pantheon.”

“…The Pantheon?”

The man’s brow furrowed.

“Ah, seeing the priest in the back, I thought it might be something like that.”

Despite speaking, the man didn’t stop idly swinging the sword in his hand. He was gauging.

Even though Ian revealed his affiliation, the hostility didn’t waver, making it hard to believe the man was in his right mind.

Well, such people could certainly be called White Owls.

He was just as Ian remembered—a person brimming with the will to fight no matter the opponent.

Even criminals rarely dared to harm priests, knowing they couldn’t bear the consequences.

But the White Owl before him was different. He was surely aware of this reality, yet the gaze from behind his mask was distinctly insolent.

“What’s with that look?”

“Oh, it’s just suspicious. A priest, here of all places? And one of you is even wearing a mask?”

“Aren’t you wearing a mask too?”

“Ah, that’s true. But at least I’m still human.”

Still?

“You lot… you might be monsters. Monsters disguised as humans. Rare, but not impossible.”

“Watch your mouth, mercenary.”

“Whoa, calm down! I’m just saying it’s a possibility, not that it’s true.”

Spreading his arms wide, the man spoke in a nonchalant tone.

“Think about it. The Pantheon? Why would priests come to a place like this? A barren land with nothing to see or do. Who do you serve, and why were you observing our camp? Just lay it all out, will you?”

“Hah, fine. I’m curious to see how you’ll react. I’m a Judicator representing the will of Rahania, Lord of Hellfire.”

The man flinched.

“A… Judicator?”

His voice trembled slightly.

“…Passing through, are you?”

“You could say that.”

“Ah! My apologies. It seems I’ve misunderstood. Please, feel free to continue on your way.”

The man straightened up, gesturing to the path behind him with an empty hand. However, Ian shook his head, indicating refusal.

“Ah, that’s unfortunate. My path leads this way. I need to inquire about the road at that camp over there.”

“Hahaha! Is that so? In that case, there’s no need for you to go all the way there. I can guide you myself. Where are you headed? Back to the fortress?”

“You’re not very hospitable. Surely a lost priest deserves a warm bowl of porridge at least?”

“That… might be a little difficult….”

Ian could see through the man’s expected reaction. Even behind his mask, it was clear he was forcing a smile.

It was obvious the man was determined not to let them inside.

“Right now, we don’t have the resources for that. Even if you come, we couldn’t properly… ha.”

The man trailed off, sighing deeply.

“Honestly, what’s the point of this?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes suddenly sharp, and raised his sword.

The blade sliced through the air, stopping sharply in the void as Ian and Eor instinctively stepped back.

KRAAAACK!

The sharp strike split the ground. It was a warning blow, excessive for mere intimidation.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Ian asked.

The man chuckled coldly.

“Pfft, as if you’re really lost. I humored your pathetic little charade for a moment, but this isn’t like me.”

“You’d fight us, knowing who we are?”

“Yeah, something like that. At the very least, I’m certain your business involves our camp. Don’t bother with excuses like being a guest. A Judicator wouldn’t come to a backwater mercenary camp without a purpose.”

“…Your judgment isn’t bad.”

The man stepped forward, swinging his sword. The murderous intent embedded in his blade was an open declaration of where he intended to strike.

Ian drew his holy sword and intercepted the strike aimed at his waist.

CLANG!

It was heavy. Ian twisted the blade, attempting to disarm his opponent, but the man didn’t yield.

The man was a seasoned swordsman. An ordinary opponent would’ve already fallen, their neck pierced without understanding what happened. His ability to assess the situation so quickly was impressive.

“Haha!”

Laughing, the man’s eyes gleamed behind his mask as he countered with a strike aimed at Ian’s collarbone.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

A series of clashes followed, blades colliding and twisting. Sharp energy rippled from the tips, threatening to rend flesh, but Ian’s holy sword stood firm.

“Guh!”

A spatter of blood flew through the air as they momentarily withdrew, only to lunge at each other again.

[Wavebreaker Strike]

The man’s sword trembled faintly, leaving faint afterimages in its wake as it twisted toward Ian. The technique bordered on magic rather than swordsmanship.

But Ian didn’t panic. It looked threatening, but all he had to do was deflect each strike in turn.

[Crimson Talon Technique: Whirlwind]

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Ian’s blade traced a circle, effortlessly nullifying the man’s technique. The strikes didn’t just rebound—they crumbled and dissolved into dust.

“What?”

It shouldn’t have been so easily blocked. The man blinked in disbelief behind his mask.

Ian had no intention of drawing this out. Prolonging the fight would only draw more mercenaries from the camp.

The White Owl Mercenaries were aggressive, but not honorable. They wouldn’t hesitate to use tricks or gang up when the odds weren’t in their favor.

They weren’t knights, after all. And Ian couldn’t fault them for it.

‘I’m a mercenary too, after all.’

Ian dug his shoe into the ground and launched himself upward.

“What the—?!”

CRACK!

The soil shot toward the man’s face like a projectile.

Although he was wearing a mask, the exposed eye holes left him no choice but to react.

Startled, he abruptly retreated, interrupting his charge. He seemed genuinely shocked, as if the idea of Ian resorting to such a petty tactic was unthinkable, given his evident superiority in skill.

Watching the man’s flustered demeanor, Ian steadied his stance.

[Bane of Evil – Fifth Form: Punishment – Execution]

The sacred sword in Ian’s hand sliced through the air, surging toward the man. It was beyond the sword’s reach—too far to land a direct hit. Any ordinary swing would have merely cleaved empty space.

But with the infusion of mana, the equation changed. The energy extending from the blade lengthened, transforming into a deadly arc.

“Khah!”

Startled, the man bent his back sharply in a desperate effort to evade. The movement was so abrupt that he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground.

Swish!

Even so, his reaction was not in vain.

Boom! Boom!

Everything along the arc of the strike was cleaved cleanly—sheer cliffs and the resilient trees rooted in the harsh terrain alike. Nothing withstood the mana-forged blade of the sacred sword.

Having cast aside his pride for a quick response, the man ended up rolling down the slope. Thankfully, it wasn’t very steep; after a few rolls, he pushed himself up with one hand.

Thud. Crash!

The falling trees hit the ground with a deafening noise.

“Ah!”

The man gasped in awe at the scene while realizing his clothes had become filthy. He tried brushing off the dirt, but it was a futile effort.

There was a reason mercenaries favored dark-colored outfits. Whether it was their clothing or equipment, cleaning them after such encounters was always a chore. Even in a world where magic scrolls were commonplace, and anyone with money could access magical conveniences, the cost was anything but trivial.

Clicking his tongue as he patted at his clothes, the man didn’t seem too upset. The joy of having survived outweighed his frustrations.

“Eheheheh!”

The man’s unnerving laughter caught Ian’s attention. Ian glanced at the sacred sword in his hand.

It missed.

Punishment – Execution. He had blocked the Blood Ogre with it before. This time, the man had dodged it.

It wasn’t that the strike lacked power or speed, nor was it poorly timed. The cause was clear.

I held back my mana—unintentionally.

He had subconsciously conserved energy for the battles yet to come. That miscalculation cost him the chance to end things decisively. The man, oblivious to Ian’s restraint, reveled in his narrow escape.

“Well, there’s no way I can win this alone.”

Alone. Ian grasped the meaning immediately as faint presences came into focus.

He slightly raised his gaze, and the man smirked knowingly.

“Oh? You feel it?”

They were coming. Four… no, five individuals.

Ian’s eyes fell again to the man standing at the bottom of the slope.

“Don’t call it cowardly. It’s a sign of how highly they regard you. Besides, this was never a fair fight to begin with. Look at this—your weapon is no ordinary thing.”

The man casually raised his blade. The mana shrouding it had fractured, and the core of the blade itself was damaged.

While the mana coating would gradually regenerate, the physical damage to the sword had no immediate fix.

It wasn’t a magically enchanted artifact, nor was it a relic with any special powers. It was simply a heavy and sturdy sword.

“I really want it. Whatever else happens, that’s something I need to have.”

Ian smirked faintly.

“You talk like I’ve been holding onto it for you.”

“That’s exactly it. I left it with you, and now I’m here to take it back. My friends have arrived!”

At that moment, five mercenaries revealed themselves, as if they’d been waiting for their cue. Unlike the man before him, these individuals didn’t look like they’d be as easy to deal with.

“Do you require assistance?”

Eor, who had been leisurely watching from the sidelines, asked, sensing that this might be a bit much for Ian to handle alone.

Ian replied, “No.”

Instead, he retrieved a doping potion from the subspace of his ring.

Wigner Delta. Without hesitation, he placed the pill in his mouth, swallowed it with a gulp, and continued speaking.

“I’ll handle this.”

A single mistake could cost him his life, but he wasn’t without confidence.

He had partially awakened his clairvoyance during his confrontation with the lab director at Mathis’s secret research facility. That ability had proven useful in his fight with the Blood Ogre as well.

It was helping him now, too. Ian could instinctively discern where an opponent’s weapon would strike. However, those previous encounters had been one-on-one battles. This would be his first time testing how effective it was against multiple foes.

The effects of the potion began to kick in. His mind cleared, and all distractions faded away.

Standing atop the slope, Ian looked down at the white owl mercenaries and spoke.

“Shall we begin? If you won’t come to me, I’ll come to you.”

———-