Rewinding time to early morning.
Dorias received a message and arrived at the temporary camp that Gro had informed him of.
As a saint long active in Aressto, and concurrently a temple knight, Dorias was naturally revered by people, leading to the stereotypical impression that he was a rigid person.
But in reality, Dorias was a very easygoing person.
If someone was willing to approach him for advice on some issues, or share trivial matters from life, or even confide their troubles, Dorias would usually chat with them enthusiastically.
From childhood to adulthood, having received a good education in an ordinary family, he was outgoing and cheerful by nature, consistent inside and out.
In others’ words—Dorias was like the sun, shining brightly; around him, there was hardly anyone who didn’t get along with him.
Dorias was worthy of being a saint of the Dawn Goddess; no one would genuinely dislike a sincere and kind-hearted person.
…….
The mercenaries all knew—that last week, it was this saint named ‘Dorias’ who had eradicated the witch’s fire source at its root.
Even those mercenaries who had never heard of Dorias’s fame, after experiencing last week’s events, recognized that Dorias was a ruthless character.
“Lord Dorias… You’ve arrived?”
When Dorias’s figure appeared at the entrance of the temporary camp, the elderly monk happened to be sitting in the tent at the entrance, holding a book of yellowed scripture pages.
“Ah… Is he the famous saint?”
The old mercenary standing at the door, who was dozing off, immediately woke up upon hearing the monk’s voice.
He looked at the unfamiliar face before him, dressed in holy robes, tall and imposing, with a greatsword on his back, and greeted him somewhat unnaturally:
“Good morning, Lord Saint, may I ask you…….”
The old monk with his eccentric behavior directly walked out of the tent, striding to Dorias and interrupting the old mercenary:
“Is there anything I can help with? Lord Dorias.”
“Good morning, Vincent.”
Dorias had a good memory; he still remembered the name of the old monk before him—last week, when the witch’s flames attacked the mercenary group, this monk had immediately recognized his identity.
Although it was quite baffling for a monk who believed in the Dawn Goddess to follow a mercenary group founded by Gro, a northerner, Dorias chose to respect others’ privacy and had never asked the monk about it.
Dorias nodded to the old monk:
“Mr. Gro entrusted me to come and assist him in investigating clues related to the heretics.”
“Mr. Gro is waiting for you in the eastern tent.” The old monk named Vincent replied, a respectful expression on his wrinkled face, “Do you need me to lead the way?”
Dorias waved his hand: “No need to trouble you; I remember the way.”
He turned to the uneasy old mercenary and took out a small cloth bag from his bosom, “This is herbal tea specially made by our temple; it’s very effective for relieving joint pain.”
The old mercenary’s eyes widened in surprise: “Lord Saint… How, how did you know my knee is bad?”
“Just a professional habit; please don’t mind.” Dorias had a warm smile on his lips, “People who have been on the battlefield for a long time unconsciously protect their old wounds when walking.”
He gently patted the old mercenary’s shoulder, the action as tender as blessing an old friend.
Monk Vincent watched the saint’s departing back and sighed softly: “Every time I see Lord Dorias, it reminds me of the Dawn Goddess’s proverb—’Light comes not only from the dawn, but shines in the kindness within humanity’.”
“Heh heh. Sounds quite proper.” The old mercenary accepted the herbs gifted by Dorias, then sat back on the ground and muttered:
“If the dawn could really fill people’s bellies…”
…….
Passing through several tents, Dorias saw Gro sitting by the extinguished bonfire in front of a tent, poking the ashes with a short sword.
Upon hearing the steady footsteps, he looked up; morning dew condensed into tiny droplets on his gray-black hair tips.
“Very punctual, Mr. Dorias.”
Gro looked into Dorias’s gray-blue eyes and glanced down at the pocket watch in his hand: “Ten minutes earlier than the time I invited you.”
“Good morning, Mr. Gro.”
The smile on Dorias’s face disappeared upon seeing Gro’s figure, while Gro’s face wore his usual smile.
“So—what is the thing you specifically invited me here to show?”
“Follow me, Dorias.”
Gro casually omitted honorifics in his speech; he stood up and walked straight toward the path outside the camp:
“These things can’t be explained clearly with words—come with me first.”
Dorias followed Gro through the misty forest path in the morning fog, finally arriving at the place where Kol’s squad had suspiciously disappeared last night.
The saint’s brows slightly furrowed, but he ultimately didn’t say much about Gro’s mysterious attitude.
“Here we are, Dorias. Look at these axe marks—”
Gro turned around and pointed to a severed tree stump, the cut surface smooth almost to perfection.
“Last night, one of my patrol teams went missing, three people. They disappeared around here.” He took a leather water flask from his waist and drank a sip,
“The leader is named Kol, an old soldier under me. It seems like they were chased by someone wielding a giant axe.”
“There’s such a thing… Then didn’t you find any clues like bloodstains or signs of fighting?”
Dorias’s expression became serious, while Gro shrugged helplessly:
“Besides these strange axe marks, they didn’t leave any other traces.”
“I see.”
Dorias half-squatted and gently stroked the cross-section of the giant tree—even he found it hard to imagine how this tree stump, about as wide as two people embracing, was cut so smoothly.
“Very rare, right?” Gro didn’t plan to stay here long; he stepped toward the depths of the forest: “There’s something even more concerning.”
Dorias followed, seeing Gro finally stop at the rock wall at the end of the path.
“Look at this, Dorias.” Gro said to the deep gash on the rock wall, “The axe marks on the rock wall, seeing these… reminded me of that old friend from Kastit. I think you should have heard of the name ‘Blood Axe’ Regnar twenty years ago.”
The saint’s gaze sharpened; after recalling for a moment, he slowly said: “Regnar? Twenty years ago… the berserker famous for his bloodthirsty madness?”
“Your memory is good; it’s him.” Gro smiled and continued: “Since you know who he is, it saves a lot of unnecessary explanation time.”
“I’ve only heard his name—never faced him personally.” Dorias said coldly: “If there was a chance, I’d prefer to personally sanction that lunatic who takes pleasure in killing.”
“To be honest, I’ve always been annoyed by that guy too. I thought that crazy fellow would eventually meet a miserable end on the battlefield, but later I heard that the ‘Blood Axe’ managed to survive with that personality; it really surprised me.”
“Is that so?”
A chill flashed in Dorias’s gray-blue eyes: “Are you trying to tell me that the suddenly vanished ‘Blood Axe’ Regnar has been doing evil from twenty years ago until now?”
“Completely wrong, Dorias.”
Gro changed his tone and explained: “Regnar, nineteen years ago, after Kastit’s southern expedition ended—in your Dawn Era terms, Regnar retired in K397.”
“According to people I know—after Regnar got married, his personality became as gentle as a different person.”
“Like me, Regnar left Kastit. He was fortunate to return to ordinary life, eventually settling down and starting a family peacefully.”
“Originally, I thought—I’d never see this old friend again, until half a month ago… when I encountered him at the Aressto border, he was even crazier than twenty years ago… he didn’t seem like a person with sanity at all.”
As Gro spoke, he unfastened his leather armor, revealing a hideous wound below his collarbone, the edges tinged with an unnatural blue-black,
“He attacked my escort team—but luckily, I was fortunate; I personally chopped off his head. I originally thought he was dead for good, but now it seems… my thinking was too simplistic.”
“By common sense—Regnar couldn’t go mad for no reason, and he certainly couldn’t return to the battlefield as a dead man.”
Gro refastened his leather armor, his tone carrying a rare seriousness:
“So I need your power, Dorias.”