Chapter 191

Audin toyed with the manticore—literally.

The way he slapped its cheek made it seem that way.

The manticore, now taking a beating, curled its tail and began to retreat.

Grrrgh.

The ground was littered with its sharp teeth, shed fur, and dark blue blood.

As the manticore curled its tail, Audin waved his hand gently with a benevolent smile still on his face.

“It is time to go, monstrous brother.”

His tone remained the same, but not the content. It was, in effect, a death sentence.

The manticore pulled one leg back. Anyone could see it was frightened.

It looked like it would bolt at any second. Most of the watching soldiers thought so, but not Audin.

The manticore was a high-grade monster, one that was incredibly cunning.

Just as it backed away, it suddenly lunged forward. A silent and sudden ambush.

Its claws shot out to stab, and its tail slammed downward with fierce force.

Audin had expected it. He parried the front claws, then grabbed the tail and, adding its own momentum, flipped it over and slammed it to the ground.

Wham!

With a thunderous boom.

Grrrgh!

The manticore groaned in agony.

It was a high-grade monster, a beast capable of taking on an entire company alone, but its opponent was far too unfavorable.

When it was slammed into the ground, rock fragments scattered in every direction. The once-startled soldiers were now cheering.

“Well done!”

“Oh!”

“Maniac!”

Why they were calling him a maniac was anyone’s guess.

Audin walked up to the manticore and slapped its cheek several more times.

After slamming the beast to the ground repeatedly, he climbed onto its back, grabbed its neck, and with a crack, snapped it. The manticore stuck out its tongue like a snake.

Its eyes rolled back, and with a faint breath, it collapsed. A loud thud echoed as its forehead hit the ground.

The high-grade monster that had been violently slapped around had now become a valuable corpse.

From its teeth to its hide and internal organs, everything was worth a lot.

“What the hell are you?”

A voice filled with disbelief came from the other side—opposite the soldiers. The soldiers were to Audin’s right, and this voice came from the left.

“I don’t believe a monster like that would come alone. From where have you come, brother?”

With his back to the moonlight, Audin rose from the manticore’s back.

At the spot his voice reached—the gallery at the edge of the wall—a cultist had appeared.

Audin had expected this. He had to.

High-grade monsters were clever and intelligent.

It didn’t make sense for a manticore to attack a man-made fortress without cause.

Especially not after getting beaten this badly and still charging in? That didn’t add up.

Unless it was driven by extreme hunger.

But even so, it had been given a chance to flee—and yet it kept attacking until the end.

That could only mean someone was controlling it.

Audin had waited for that someone to show up.

That was why he let the fight drag on. The moment he sensed that presence, he killed the manticore.

It had served its purpose.

“How dare you!”

The one shouting suddenly had a bluish glow in his eyes. Audin recognized it.

A trace of the cult.

He was one of those who served the false god.

“A brother who serves the cult, I see.”

A quiet murmur.

Among the days spent as an inquisitor were days like this—days spent hunting down cultists.

The cultist with glowing blue eyes raised his hand. As the movement continued—

The soldiers were so shocked, they couldn’t even speak.

It was an opening.

Wham!

Audin vanished—or so it seemed. Kicking off the ground, he closed the distance even faster than the manticore had.

Boom!

A separate explosion rang out from the sound of him kicking off the ground.

All the soldiers saw was a figure flying and slamming into the wall.

The twitching corpse in midair, spasming as its hand flicked in the air.

“May the Lord watch over us.”

Audin’s solitary prayer echoed faintly.

The soldiers looked to where his voice came from, and there stood a bear-like beast of a man, frozen mid-punch.

Audin of the Madman Platoon.

Now part of a unit rumored to be becoming an independent company.

Audin’s blow was too fast for the soldiers’ eyes to even catch.

All they knew was that something had happened—and only the result remained.

From his punching stance, Audin brought his hands together and returned to his usual calm demeanor.

The soldiers checked the crumpled figure. The body smashed against the gallery wall had something missing.

The head—it was gone.

“Where did the head go?”

No one knew. What they did know was that this crazed religious man had erased someone from existence with a single punch.

The blood sprayed in a radial pattern across one side of the gallery wall was proof enough.

“…I think I actually pissed myself.”

The stench rose between one soldier’s legs.

It was more terrifying because they hadn’t seen it properly. How could a human be like that?

A dead manticore and a cultist.

Most of the soldiers still hadn’t fully grasped the situation.

Only one platoon leader, who had arrived late atop the gallery, began to restore order.

“Uh, right. The ambush, uh… has been neutralized? Seeing the commotion outside, it looks like more might be coming, so let’s head down to support—”

“There’s no need, brother.”

Audin, who had been quietly gazing down the wall after his prayer, spoke.

“Eh?”

“It’s almost over.”

In Audin’s eyes, he saw his company commander fighting.

He had known from sparring with him, but seeing him in actual combat was different.

‘You’ve improved, brother.’

In his movements and swordsmanship, Audin could see things he hadn’t seen before. Confidence, and faith—things like that.

If one knew what he was like at the start, this would be a tremendous improvement.

And Audin couldn’t help but feel proud. What else could he do, when all he wanted now was for that man to succeed?

‘Your servant asks, my Lord. Is this Your will? Were You the one who guided him?’

As always, his Lord did not answer.

But now, he no longer needed one. Audin, too, had found a small truth here.

It had all begun with Encrid.

‘Needing an answer is but proof of my weakness, so I shall press forward without demanding or doubting.’

There exists a man who lives that way—one who overcomes all tribulations without yielding to anything, in accordance with the words of the Holy Scripture.

How could one not feel joy watching such a man?

Audin wished for blessings upon Encrid, who burned through his life as he lived.

But Encrid claimed those blessings with his own hands.

Thus, there was no longer any need to plead with the Lord on his behalf. A prayer would suffice.

“Very well.”

What exactly was “very well”? The platoon leader blinked as he looked at the bear-like man.

But really—was it okay not to go down?

The ruckus outside still bothered him, so he moved his feet anyway. When he reached the bottom, he found one soldier with a hole in his stomach and another bleeding from the thigh.

“That bastard is a spy.”

The soldier clutching his stomach said it. He was pressing down on his abdomen with his own clothing, likely to stop the bleeding.

The platoon leader spoke to the soldier who had followed behind him.

“Hold him down.”

He picked up the spy Encrid had discarded and looked out through the side gate.

From atop the wall, he hadn’t been able to see clearly, but now he could.

There, a lone man was slicing through and killing a group of people in black.

A familiar face. The one currently most infamous among the Border Guards—the leader of the Madman Platoon.

* * *

The Black Sword Bandits were losing their minds. Especially Dunbakel—this was, frankly, a first for her.

“A knight? No… a knight order member?”

Dunbakel spoke with her hand resting on her scimitar. Was the opponent just too strong?

Or did they come into this not knowing what they were getting into?

Five of those who had come with her were now corpses.

Two had lost a leg each.

Even if a high priest were to arrive and pour divine power into them, they’d still be left crippled.

Of course, there was no chance such a priest would show up, and even if they did, they wouldn’t waste divine power on them—so they’d be maimed for life.

And that was if they were lucky. Judging by the amount of blood, they didn’t have long to live.

The one who had caused this stood before her, flipping his sword front to back with a subtle nod.

He ignored her words entirely. That ease in his movements was unmistakable.

“What the hell are you?”

Dunbakel asked, laced with disbelief. Encrid only shrugged again.

It wasn’t as though he could explain his dream of becoming a knight to someone radiating murderous intent. Not when he wasn’t even a knight yet.

Instead, Encrid inspected his sword—the blade, to be precise.

‘Cuts like a dream.’

He had aimed for the thigh, and the sword had sliced cleanly through thick leather pants.

Its cutting power was exceptional. Was it because the blacksmith had honed the blade well, or was the sword itself exceptional?

He decided it was both.

The balance held steady at the pommel, the wrapped leather grip sat snug in his palm. Its sharpness and the overall strength of the blade were deeply satisfying.

You could feel its durability just by looking.

It wasn’t made of Valerian steel, yet the blade was clearly high quality.

This was the finest weapon Encrid had ever held.

“Not coming?”

Encrid said, a breeze catching his voice.

He wanted to test the sword more. And the techniques he had now grown comfortable using.

He’d thought Rem was just craving action.

‘Maybe I’m the same.’

Why was he so eager to keep fighting?

Dunbakel frowned at his words.

‘Where the hell did this guy come from?’

Even his scent was different. For beastkin, their sharp noses often helped gauge an opponent’s level.

Strictly speaking, it was a matter of instinct—of preserving their own lives.

Dunbakel had a sense now.

‘This is probably my grave.’

So, should she run?

She didn’t want to.

Hadn’t she lived half her life like she wanted to die anyway? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to close the book here.

She had always wished to die in battle. That’s why she stood here now. Dunbakel had resolved herself.

And more than anything—her final opponent wasn’t bad. Both his face and his skill were to her liking.

‘He’s more than enough.’

That thought made her let out a chuckle without realizing it. A laugh that didn’t match the situation.

One remaining member of the Black Sword Bandits gave her a sideways glance.

He smelled like fear.

A stench not unlike piss.

“Hey. Do you want to live?”

Dunbakel asked the last remaining comrade. Just another nameless bandit.

“What?”

Was that supposed to mean, What the hell is this lunatic saying?

“Never mind.”

Before the words had even finished leaving her mouth, thwack—the fist made of bulging muscle crashed into his face.

Wham!

A heavy thud followed.

“Ggurgh!”

With a short, grotesque sound, his feet lifted off the ground.

His right eyeball, shoved inward by the punch, popped out as blood splattered, and his fractured skull jutted outward.

No—parts of it shattered and scattered in chunks.

While keeping his gaze locked on Encrid in a state of tension, the man’s face collapsed on one side, and of course, he died.

“A good burial site.”

Dunbakel said, arm still extended from the punch. She didn’t bother explaining her actions. Instead, she revealed her true self.

“Come on, let’s fight for real.”

The moment Dunbakel spoke, her eyes changed. Her pupils stretched vertically, becoming beast-like.

Grrrrrrr.

Why were beastkin different from werewolves?

Because their very appearance was different.

Ordinary beastkin retained a mostly human form, only incorporating minor animal traits.

That meant they didn’t undergo these kinds of transformations.

Even when something wild stirred within them and they changed a little, they didn’t end up with full animal heads like wolves.

Fangs might grow, eyes might shift, and hair might get a bit longer, but they never strayed far from a human shape.

That was true—for most beastkin.

But Dunbakel was different.

As remnants of her humanity remained, beast blood surged through her body—and she began to transform.

Rustle.

Long white fur sprouted all over her body.

Her facial bones cracked and shifted, morphing into the structure of a lion’s.

Encrid had seen a few beastkin in his life, but nothing like this.

Why was she transforming?

It had taken a while to explain, but the transformation itself was done in a blink.

“Monster?”

Encrid asked. Could that thing even speak?

Its form resembled that of a lycanthrope.

Though the opponent’s appearance was that of a lion—more precisely, a lion with flowing white fur—and the aura she exuded was entirely different.

To be honest, rather than a monster, she looked more like a sentinel guarding some divine temple in a legend or myth.

At least, that’s how Encrid felt—but the first word that came to mind was still “monster.”

“Grrrgh, I get that a lot,”

Dunbakel said, growling. A habitual phrase that came with the transformation.

From her aura, demeanor, and tone, Encrid felt something strange.

The “burial site” she spoke of didn’t sound like it was meant for him—but rather that she herself was hoping to die.

Well, that wasn’t the important part.

“You coming?”

“Of course! Grrrgh!”

Before the words had even finished, the white lion kicked off the ground with a boom and charged in.

Her left hand slashed down with claws that shot out in an instant, and with the other hand, she swung the scimitar she had already drawn.

The claws and blade crossed as they targeted Encrid’s chest and waist.

Encrid, seeing every motion clearly, raised his sword upright and struck forward twice with a sharp twist.

Both were cleaving strikes, each packed with impact.

He activated [Heart of Monstrous Strength] in an instant—a defensive technique that left no room for binding or interruption.

Pure power-based deflection.

Clang!

Clang!

He struck down the claws. Then struck down the scimitar.

And yet, the beastkin didn’t back off.

An indomitable charge—an assault made in full acceptance of death.

It was the kind of move that should have startled Encrid.

That’s how close the two had become. And the white lion, as if fully expecting her attacks to be blocked, suddenly reared back her neck and slammed her forehead forward.

‘Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship?’

A headbutt after a charge—it was a familiar technique.