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Chapter 6
The one who is struck remembers the one who struck him.
The pain of that moment seeps into the eyes, into the skin, and firmly takes its place in the vast territory of memory.
For Lian Cade, Gerard was the man who gave him his first death, the one who awakened his ability of immortality.
Impossible to forget, even if he tried.
On the other hand, the one who strikes seldom remembers whom he has struck. They are too preoccupied with pouring violence and fear into their opponent, too lost in their emotions.
And on the battlefield?
Would a man who is busy killing remember all those he slays?
To Gerard, Lian was nothing more than one among countless humans cut down by his sword.
Though… in the end, he did seem to remember.
That look of shock in his eyes as he turned away—
That had been quite satisfying.
And when they met again someday… what kind of expression would Gerard wear then?
That thought briefly played in Lian’s mind before he forced his focus back onto the changes in his own body.
At the very least, he should have lost consciousness for over a day. Yet here he was—his mind clear, his ears still hearing.
The shroud of darkness had lifted, and he was even able to meet Gerard’s eyes as the man withdrew from the battlefield.
The blow to his heart might have been shallow, but it was still a certain death.
So this is… some kind of adaptation?
It was like the feeling of taking one’s first steps. The hardest is the first—after that, it becomes easier and easier.
He had sworn not to rely on immortality. But deep beneath that oath lay the quiet conviction that he could not truly die.
Perhaps his body and spirit had already adapted to the condition of immortality.
Crunch. Crack.
He felt countless worms squirming in and out of the torn, slashed, and punctured wounds.
His body was healing.
And with that healing, the numbed nerves of pain returned to life.
“Ughhhhhh!!!”
This was unlike the pain of recovering from blood loss. It wasn’t layered pain—it was explosive pain, as if his whole body were being torn apart in an instant.
Perhaps the reason he lost consciousness for a full day after his first death was because the shock of this explosive pain had overwhelmed him.
Whatever the case…
Thump. Thump!
His heart began to pound violently.
And he felt it.
The pain was turning inside out, becoming strength. His body brimmed with more power than before.
Is this… also a kind of talent?
He could not deny it.
Death brought meaningful results.
When death crept in slowly, it produced temporary physical boosts.
But after a complete death, all the struggle and torment up to that point seemed to be absorbed and engraved into the body, leaving behind permanent improvement.
So yes, it could be called a talent.
Should he then embrace immortality as a blessing, deliberately dying again and again to strengthen his body?
Could that path eventually grant him the gift of aura—the power that would raise him to the rank of knight?
No… I can’t depend on that.
He didn’t even know if his immortality would last forever.
Nor if physical enhancement through death would truly lead to aura awakening.
And even if immortality did last forever, even if death granted him strength and aura… he knew that would not make him a knight.
Knights were those who transcended humanity through their own will and conviction.
Had there ever been a knight who relied only on talent?
“Aura and the vessel that holds it—these are not matters of talent alone. It’s conviction, will, something beyond. That’s what I always saw in the Captains of Azrion’s Knight Orders—something untouchable.”
Lian recalled the words of his adoptive father, Ellen Cade, who had retired after losing his aura because of Lian’s very existence.
“Yes… I cannot rely only on talent.”
Not dying was certainly a talent. But in each cycle of death and rebirth, he had fought desperately to survive.
That desperation had forged the meaningful improvements.
Immortality was merely a backdrop to the endless struggle of life.
If he was to rise above knights, it would be through struggle, will, and conviction—not mere talent.
Crack.
Resolving himself, Lian snapped off a broken spear shaft that had lodged in his body, and gripped it.
Then, over the skin that had already healed smooth and clean, leaving only traces of blood, he drew the weapon across himself.
Slash.
He deliberately carved neither too shallow nor too deep a wound.
Stab.
He even pierced through the spot where he had been impaled earlier, leaving another significant injury.
Kh… as expected, unless it’s a lethal wound, healing doesn’t occur immediately.
He hadn’t done it to test his limits.
Clatter, clatter!
For across Trevor Bridge, Battalion Commander Monclay was charging toward him with his escort.
No doubt coming to see for himself the source of the miraculous reversal in such a desperate battle.
Should he confess?
No. He wouldn’t believe me. And even if he did, he’d hand me to the Inquisitors as an experiment.
No matter that he was Ellen’s adopted son, bearing the Cade name and serving as a soldier.
The stigma of being “the sole survivor of the witch” would never vanish.
Swish.
Lian rose to his feet, shrugging off his ruined imperial armor. Facing the approaching Monclay, he snapped to attention and offered a soldier’s salute.
***
“By the gods!!”
Monclay cried out as he watched the imperial army collapse upon the frozen river.
The sudden reversal filled him with such joy that he could have danced naked.
But this was no time to lose control of the army.
“Spare none of those who set foot on our land!!”
The imperials who had crossed the bridge in their arrogance were slaughtered.
“Chase down the fleeing imperials! But beware their tricks! Full advance!!”
“Uooooohhh!!!”
At his command, the soldiers charged across Trevor Bridge.
The imperials who had broken through their defenses scattered the moment the ice gave way.
The soldiers carved their way through heaps of corpses and cut down the stragglers.
Clatter, clatter!
Monclay spurred his horse past the main force, riding toward where the enemy mage had been.
This must be a miracle!!
The power to freeze the Trevor River… that mage must have been at least lieutenant-class or higher.
Defeat had seemed inevitable.
Had the reversal come earlier, perhaps their collapse could have been prevented—but no such tidings had come.
He had considered pulling back into defense, but with such a mage, defense was meaningless.
The fall of Northheim, the severing of their supply lines, and the loss at Twin Canyons would have followed.
Better to die holding the line, waiting for some desperate chance.
But now—such a reversal!
This was nothing less than the goddess of victory forcing her hand up to raise their broken arms.
It could not have been the enemy mage’s whimsy.
He had seen the signs of turmoil from afar.
No, this reversal was born of someone killing that mage.
Whoever it was—they are surely the hero of this battle.
So Monclay thought, spurring his horse harder.
When he reached the site, he saw someone casting off a ruined armor chestpiece and saluting him.
A soldier?!
Black hair. Black eyes.
A body honed by training, scarred by fresh wounds.
The blood still dripping from them told the tale of what he had endured.
There could be no doubt. This shirtless soldier must have been the one who slew the mage.
Thud.
Monclay dismounted and strode toward Lian. His escorts followed hastily, dismounting.
Swish.
But Monclay raised his hand, halting them, and closed the distance himself.
“Was it you who killed the mage?!”
“Lieutenant Lian Cade, 3rd Company, 1st Platoon. Reporting to Commander Monclay.”
Lian identified himself first, acknowledging the blunt question.
Monclay’s face hardened with disbelief.
“Impossible. You were surrounded on all sides—how…?”
Lian could hardly say, I died, and then came back.
A guard frowned and offered his own theory.
“Did you… play dead while your comrades were cut down?!”
Better to let them believe that.
Lian stayed silent.
If they wished to condemn him for surviving where others perished, he would accept it.
If that could soothe his fallen comrades’ meaningless deaths, so be it.
“You said Lian Cade? …Adopted son of Sir Ellen?”
Instead of condemning him, Monclay questioned his lineage. As if weighing whether this “hero” had the pedigree to be celebrated.
“Yes, sir.”
“I see… They say you even survived that infamous witch. Did that same luck follow you here?”
Monclay stroked his chin, hiding his true thoughts.
Lian said nothing.
Then Monclay pressed further.
“You still haven’t answered. Did you kill the mage?”
The tone implied he wanted every detail.
“I survived the battle by disguising myself in imperial armor. When the fight reached its height, I slipped close to the mage and cut his throat.”
Monclay’s eyes flicked to the corpses of the elite shadow unit scattered around.
“Their guards must have been formidable.”
“See for yourself.”
Lian spread his arms, revealing his wounds. His infiltration was clear: disguised in imperial armor, slipping into their midst, enduring grievous injuries, and striking down the mage.
Yet Monclay still looked at him with suspicion.
The boy who had alone survived the witch’s lair—
a miracle, yes, but one whispered to be cursed, bringing misfortune to those around him.
So too now, Monclay thought, perhaps Lian had been born under a curse: immortality at the cost of misfortune for all around him.
Could it be… a curse? That he cannot die, but all others around him suffer?
Such was inevitable for Monclay to think, facing Lian Cade himself.
Sensing the suspicion, Lian added more detail:
The mage had been unguarded. The elite troops had taken him for a spy and tried to send him away with one of his own men. But they suddenly turned on each other, killing one another, allowing him to finish the mage with only these wounds.
“…I see.”
Monclay rubbed his chin, listening carefully.
Do I believe him?
But in truth, belief was irrelevant. What mattered was how best to use this man.
Should he raise him as a hero for propaganda?
Or denounce him as an anomaly, handing him to the Inquisitors to remove this cursed presence from his sight?
After a moment of silent calculation, Monclay finally opened his mouth.
