Enkrid, as always, found it enjoyable to watch those who rushed at him. Thanks to that, a smile naturally formed on his lips.

Seeing that, Shinar asked without blinking an eye.

"Why are you smiling like Rem?"

Enkrid shot back immediately.

"Why is that suddenly an insult?"

Ragna, who was standing beside him, opened his mouth.

"Even if it wasn’t a particularly pleasant expression to see, that is excessive."

Jaxon added a word as well.

"That’s an insult."

Even Audin laughed softly as he spoke.

"For a moment, Brother Commander, your inner thoughts were revealed. You were thinking you wanted to beat them all to death, weren’t you?"

Of course not. Enkrid turned his head to the side and saw Rem, who was harassing the soldiers, pull out his axe and ask.

"Hm? You too want to split them all apart? I know. I know. I know everything in your heart. But you have to endure. If you beat those bastards to death, who will be the meat shields?"

There was Rem, talking to his inherited weapon.

Right in front of him, the soldier who had been smacked on the thigh over and over under the pretext of posture correction until bruises formed was sweating coldly.

Weren’t the Mad Order of Knights called mad because they fought as well as berserkers? Why did they just seem like lunatics?

For them, this was daily life, so Rophod and Pell didn’t even turn their heads. In truth, the two were too busy fighting each other.

The difference in their skill was negligible, and they knew each other’s habits well. Because of that, the match couldn’t end easily.

Pell suddenly made a bold move, throwing away his sword and trying to seize his opponent’s elbow to twist it, but Rophod had recently begun properly relearning the Balafian martial arts that he had previously only picked up piecemeal.

Of course Pell didn’t know. When Pell threw his sword and closed in tightly, Rophod too let go of his sword. Afterwards, the two of them rolled across the ground like a dogfight.

Since the rain had turned the ground into a mud pit, the two of them looked like drenched mongrels as they rolled, soaked to the bone.

Neither cared about being wet or dirty. They were ready to drop their swords if that meant winning. Their will was clear: whatever it took, they would seize victory.

That determination was plain in their eyes. No special discernment was needed to see it. The spirit they carried was palpable.

"You’ve grown."

Watching them, Frokk once again voiced his admiration. He had helped them get this far at least halfway, so it was enough to make him feel satisfied.

Of course, Lua Gharne’s greatest joy was in watching Enkrid’s growth. For her, life right now was renewed happiness every single day.

‘Killing embers...’

Insight and experience, and a swordsmanship grounded in high-speed cognition. No—rather than call it swordsmanship, it was better to call it a way of fighting.

Even earlier, when he subdued Aisia, it was clear: it wasn’t a matter of technique with the sword alone.

‘His experience of blocking Balrog’s attacks became nourishment.’

Was it just luck?

Otherwise, there was too much that couldn’t be explained. It seemed built on insight and experience. Insight, perhaps—but experience?

‘Unless he’s fought countless battles against an opponent on Balrog’s level...’

She hadn’t seen those fights herself, but Lua Gharne knew Enkrid. The Enkrid before fighting Balrog and after were too different. That difference compelled her to study him, and through that research came the thought.

"To beat them to death? It’s a spar. Getting hurt during a spar can’t be helped, but I have no intent to kill."

Enkrid spoke, but his words carried a subtle pressure. The soldier standing before him, eager to learn a move, looked pitiable.

The fact that his legs weren’t shaking already spoke of his grit. His name was Rearvart, wasn’t it?

‘So the man hasn’t changed, but...’

His skill had grown to an absurd degree.

‘Can a mouse standing before a snake ever win against the snake?’

One only grows when facing an enemy at the level of a natural predator. If that isn’t mysticism, then what is?

Kkrrk-kkrrk, bururuk, bururuk.

Caught up in his thoughts, Frokk’s cheeks puffed up and then sank again in excitement. His nostrils flared as he snorted. Part of his elation was surely from being drenched by the rain. For Frokk, swamps and rain gave the same cozy comfort as roasted potatoes by the fireplace on a winter’s night would give to a human.

The pupils of the soldiers watching shook violently.

What’s wrong with Frokk all of a sudden?

It wasn’t that none of them knew his odd habits, but seeing Frokk this excited wasn’t common.

And that fairy—what was with her?

Her appearance was superior even compared to other fairies, but the words coming from her mouth shattered all expectations.

There were fairies in the Royal Guard too. Not from Kirheis, but their unfeeling fairy nature never changed. Everyone knew that. And yet this fairy was different, wasn’t she?

"Don’t kill him. Poor thing."

Even now she spoke that way, half in jest. On reflection, it was clearly meant as a joke. Half the soldiers present didn’t even realize it was supposed to be a joke.

"I said I’m not killing him."

Enkrid replied as he slid his sword back into its sheath, then unclipped the sheath from his belt and took it in hand.

Clack—the sound was more chilling than the ring of steel. At least, that’s how it sounded to the soldier facing him.

"Bit late to regret saying you wanted to fight."

One soldier muttered. But he didn’t mean to back down. His words said one thing, but his eyes didn’t. They weren’t blazing, but within those languid-looking eyes was a cold gleam, the clear will to try.

"Rearvart, you’re not planning to stay here all night, are you?"

Enkrid asked.

"Of course not, Sir."

His tone carried respect and reverence.

The only reason Rearvart’s legs weren’t shaking was because he trusted Enkrid. He wouldn’t kill him. But the pressure was real.

Under that pressure, Rearvart somehow drew his sword and swung. His stroke didn’t draw a graceful arc, nor was it an impressive strike by any means—but among the soldiers watching, those with an eye for it nodded inwardly.

He had endured that pressure. He had shaken it off and swung his sword. That alone was worthy of praise.

As those thoughts passed through the soldiers’ minds, Enkrid’s lips opened.

"Have you been idle all this time?"

As he spoke, Enkrid kicked Rearvart’s thigh. Springing off the ground, his right leg lashed out like a whip, as though slicing through his thigh.

Bang!

It sounded like muscle tearing, though of course it wasn’t.

"Ughp."

Rearvart couldn’t even scream as his stance collapsed. But he did not fall. He supported himself on just his right leg. The struck thigh lost all sensation from the hip downward, as though it had really been severed. And still, he endured.

“The spirit is not bad.”

That was Enkrid’s evaluation.

Objectively speaking, Rearvart’s skill had also improved considerably.

However, Enkrid’s standard was the Border Guard’s standing army. Meaning, they were the kind of men who, if they did not run, would be jabbed in the back with a knife to make them run, who had to carry an axe while running across the Pen-Hanil mountain range, who at the drop of a hat became the sparring partner of a so-called genius named Ragna, and who, if they failed to lift stones heavier than their own body weight each day, would hear the words,

“Brother, are you a man who does not keep promises?”

“Next.”

Enkrid continued the sparring without hesitation. One of them even left an impression. It was the one whose eyes had gone cold.

‘Talent.’

The way he swung his sword and the manner itself were ingenious. Brunhilt came to mind right away. That child he had met inside the Pen-Hanil mountains was also a genius.

This soldier possessed talent of the same degree.

However, his training and experience were still far too lacking. Even before crossing swords, simply facing him made that state easy enough to guess.

‘The type who believes in talent and is lazy with training.’

He was of the Ragna sort. Enkrid gave him a heartfelt lesson.

“If you rely only on talent and posture, you’ll be caught by a Westerner.”

With those words he hooked his foot and threw a punch that grazed the man’s jaw. With that one blow the man’s legs gave out and he collapsed.

“And your spirit is worse than Rearvart’s.”

The evaluation was cold. Perhaps the earlier words had been meaningless.

The man immediately vomited up everything inside him.

The sound of retching, and yellow liquid streaming down the corners of his mouth. On his knees in the mud, the man could not even lift his head.

“At this rate you’ll never beat Rearvart.”

This man, who usually passed his time idly, had probably vomited for the first time in a long while.

‘Rearvart, on the other hand, must have experienced it often due to overtraining.’

Talent does not speak for everything. The sum of the time and effort invested each day surpasses ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ talent.

Enkrid himself was the proof of that. Or rather, he wanted to be the proof.

He had come this far thanks to the Ferryman’s help, but he was still a man who put more weight on effort than talent.

“Take him away.”

The man who had rolled in the mud stared at Enkrid’s back with clouded eyes until the very end.

Next, a fairy rushed at him, and Enkrid did not hold back here either.

“If your nimble body is your strength, do you think that alone will suffice?”

Every word he spoke, if the listener could properly absorb it, was worth its weight in gold.

Of course, the same applied to Rem’s teaching.

“If you have neither spirit nor fighting spirit, what should you do? You should roll.”

Rem raised the corner of his mouth even sharper than Enkrid’s smile.

The soldiers, seeing that face, found it not hard to imagine a pervert deriving sadistic pleasure.

It had already been several days spent like this. And yet, there had been no deserters. These were men handpicked and gathered here.

That too pleased Enkrid.

***

The next day, Enkrid moved at midday to escort Crang. The noon sun had dried completely the rain that had poured the day before.

It was a hot day. A day when sweat flowed easily.

On his back he carried a dark green cloak, at his left hip was Dawn Tempering, at his right hip the broken Penna, and beneath his outer garment he wore even Balrog’s armor.

Regardless of skill, moving with the best equipment had been his habit since his mercenary days.

But hadn’t there been talk of some seditious movement?

‘At such a time, is an inspection really appropriate?’

The question arose, but it was not something for Enkrid to concern himself with.

As he headed toward the inner citadel to meet Crang, he heard the captain of the Royal Guard kneel on one knee and speak in a voice boiling with blood.

“Your Highness! Of the twenty Royal Guard, replacing Sir Aisia with Sir Matthew, accompanied by at least three close guards, and adding two hundred of the garrison to form minimal defenses, only then may you go forth! The burden upon Your Highness’s shoulders is not merely Your Highness’s head alone!”

Wasn’t that a bit excessive? So Enkrid thought, but the people around showed no sign of surprise.

Matthew and Marcus were present as well, but they listened without fuss.

From that, Enkrid could guess at the usual relationship between Crang and the captain of the Royal Guard.

‘An unreserved relationship.’

Close guards, a group that sometimes oversteps the line for the king’s safety.

That was the shield guarding the king, the Royal Guard.

“It’s fine, I said.”

Crang shook his head lightly.

“Your Highness.”

The captain of the Royal Guard showed no sign of backing down.

But when it came to stubbornness, Crang was no pushover, and he enjoyed outthinking his opponent.

In other words, he was adept at setting the board in a way that left the other unable to refuse or reject.

That was why Crang, just then, pointed at Enkrid, who had arrived. The finger he extended and the smile on his face looked supremely confident.

“Can he win?” 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Those words that followed turned the Royal Guard captain’s complexion ashen.

In this land, who could dare guarantee victory against the Commander of the Mad Order of Knights?

Even if one was confident in his own skill, this was a knight who had returned from slaughtering monsters in heaps.

The captain of the Royal Guard closed his mouth like a clam.

Cutting out everything else, the meaning of those words was single.

Even without hundreds of soldiers, having the knight called a calamity step forward would be enough to replace them.