Chapter 192
[Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship], close-quarters technique.
A headbutt.
Encrid was surprised. Or rather, he was surprised—but not enough to be hit by such an attack after all he had endured.
[Perception of Evasion] activated, and his body moved on its own.
He twisted his head aside to dodge, then swept his foot forward.
With a solid tap, he hooked her ankle, and the white lion tumbled forward completely.
His sword sliced through the space where she would’ve been had she not rolled.
If she’d stayed upright, she would’ve been left with at least one slash somewhere on her body—but rolling forward completely allowed her to evade it.
Her reaction speed and judgment were excellent.
Encrid naturally picked up the pace.
He stepped in, swung his sword—
And adjusted the rhythm of his reactions.
His tempo changed.
This was the most recent and prominent improvement in Encrid’s skills.
A diagonal slash, twice as fast as his usual strikes, extended even from a twisted stance.
Dunbakel clenched her teeth.
The angle was impossible to dodge.
She raised her elbow.
Clack! Thud! Spurt!
She’d meant to block the blade with her elbow bone, but he saw through it and twisted the blade.
So the downward-facing blade suddenly laid flat—and she ended up placing her elbow directly on the edge.
Still, the beastkin’s unique reflexes hadn’t dulled. Even though her elbow was partially slashed, she managed to deflect it.
“You managed that, huh?”
A low voice reached her.
Sharp. Clear.
More than anything—close.
Dunbakel had thought she could hold her ground in beast form.
Not a chance.
The blade was already descending toward her head.
Honestly, she didn’t even understand how he’d closed the distance and swung his sword so fast.
All she could do was block and evade.
Gritting through the pain of torn muscles in her arm, she raised her scimitar.
She had resolved to die—but not as anything less than a warrior.
She wanted to stand before their god’s temple as a true fighter.
‘Krimhalt.’
Dunbakel invoked the name of her god.
The deity worshipped by all beastkin, the sole god of their kind—overseer of war and procreation.
Do you want to rest in Krimhalt’s embrace?
Then die a warrior’s death.
A warrior’s death would let her live eternally as Krimhalt’s blade in the immortal vortex of the afterlife.
Clang! Clatterrrrr!
Sparks flew as her sword met his, gliding along the blade’s edge.
Under the moonlight, it looked like red fire illuminating the surroundings.
In that fleeting moment, Dunbakel targeted where his foot should be, using a technique from [Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship] to kick at his ankle.
A technique meant to feint with your gaze and weapon, while casually striking at the legs.
It was a calculated move—but he simply raised his foot and blocked hers with the top of it.
Then, his sword descended toward the back of her neck.
Tap. The cold touch registered, and Dunbakel accepted the end.
‘Will I be able to reach Krimhalt?’
As death neared, stray thoughts drifted in. Of course they would.
Those who’ve lived bitter lives are often the ones with the most regret.
She had been abandoned by her village, cast aside by the cities, and no other beastkin had truly accepted her.
She had lived forsaken by her own people.
She’d tried to prove herself through mercenary work and the sword, but even that had not come easy.
She’d believed it was her only path—only for that path to close.
She couldn’t bear children, and even that felt unfair.
Even her birth had felt unfair.
‘Why just me?’
Why did she alone have to live a life like this?
That resentment became a desperate desire to live.
Regret gripped her ankles; rage pounded in her chest.
Just as he touched his sword to her nape, Encrid hesitated.
It was… something like instinct.
A feeling—no, a gut sense that it was better not to kill.
To add one logical reason—
‘We still need someone who can talk. Their affiliation, who sent them, all that.’
She had rushed in like she wanted to die, but once the blade pressed against her, her body trembled.
Encrid saw the white lion’s fur begin to shake.
There was fear, and frustration.
The beastkin planted her palm to the ground and tucked her hind legs in, curling into herself.
‘Looks just like what Esther does when she’s exhausted.’
Uncannily similar.
With that thought—
“Do you want to live?”
He asked bluntly.
Dunbakel, with the sword still resting on her nape, lifted her head.
Were her eyes always this blue?
From eyes tinged with a faint gold hue, tears streamed down.
‘…She’s crying?’
It was, of course, the most unexpected moment.
“Grrngh, grrngh.”
The beastkin wept. It was hard to describe the shift within her—but one thing felt certain.
‘Sounds like she’s begging to be spared.’
He pulled the sword away—and just then, a familiar voice hit Encrid’s ears.
“What? You’re not killin’ her? Yaaaawn.”
It was Rem. Speaking through a mouth stretched wide open with a huge yawn.
“When’d you get here?”
“Just now. Right around when you and the beastie started swinging swords. So is this a lion-person? Or a beastkin?”
Her appearance was more like a lycanthrope, but there’s no monster who cries like that after losing a fight.
“Yo, are you a crybaby?”
Rem smacked the white lion on the back of the head. Business as usual—his default bullying stance.
He sat down, jabbed at her head with a finger, then slapped her again.
“Quit cryin’. He said he won’t kill ya.”
And it wasn’t just Rem.
Audin, Jaxson, Ragna, and Krys had come down too.
“What the hell’s goin’ on in the middle of the night?”
Krys asked.
“Was it that noisy?”
Encrid responded. Jaxson pointed beside him and answered.
“Esther called us.”
The usual dry tone. But Encrid sensed something subtly different.
Admiration? Something close to it, perhaps.
“What makes you say that?”
“You saw the fight?”
Jaxson nodded, then fell silent. Truthfully, he had arrived earlier than Rem and saw everything.
Even more closely and thoroughly than Audin.
An expert’s eyes recognize an expert’s skill.
That’s why, inwardly, he was in awe.
Even though he already knew, seeing how much his skill had changed always made it feel like some kind of magic had occurred.
Would the others not be surprised?
“What was that technique you used at the end?”
Ragna asked.
“I mixed [Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship] with the new technique I learned.”
At that, Ragna’s expression turned slightly odd.
“Did Frok teach you?”
“Huh?”
No, Ruagarne had told him to study various sword styles. Mixing them like that… it had just come naturally in the moment.
At that time, it had simply felt right.
Thinking back on it, Encrid wondered why he’d acted that way.
‘Why did I do that?’
Because it felt like the best move at the time.
So then, was it wrong?
No. It didn’t feel like it was.
The opponent had been weaker than him. He’d approached it like testing out a new sword.
They’d find out where these people came from soon enough, but—
‘At the very least, elite-level Border Guard.’
The Border Guard was composed entirely of top-tier soldiers.
Among them, the elites were especially skilled.
There had even been talk that one of the guards, who had stepped away on a separate mission, used to be the strongest sword in the Border Guard.
Which meant that the disaster Encrid had just created was more or less equivalent to taking on a full squad of elite Border Guards.
And that last beastkin had been even stronger.
When had he reached the point where he could look at such foes this way?
He didn’t know. Truly.
‘I’m still lacking.’
Even so, the thirst returned. He wasn’t satisfied here. No—he couldn’t be satisfied.
What if that junior knight had been here?
Aisia, the woman whose name he could never forget.
‘This would’ve been easier.’
In any battle, in any moment—there was no end to learning. Encrid had known that since he was young.
Even if his body hadn’t always followed, Encrid’s mindset had always been right.
Because he never stopped seeking to learn.
“Where are you affiliated?”
Just as he finished sorting out his thoughts, Krys spoke from behind Rem.
He didn’t step near the beastkin—just opened his mouth.
Rem, of course, was still taunting with his usual smirk.
Actually, his hands were busy too.
Tap tap, he struck the beastkin’s head, then poked at her shoulder—specifically the spot where she’d been slashed.
“Does that hurt?”
“Hey, you a crybaby? Beastkin crybaby?”
“What’s with your face? You eat curses instead of meat as a kid?”
“First time I’ve seen a lion cry. Keep goin’. Want me to poke your wounds? It’ll make crying easier, right?”
“C’mon, cry for me.”
Encrid realized—Rem really might be the most rotten personality in the world.
If they ever needed someone to provoke an enemy in battle, he’d absolutely put him out front.
Encrid used his words to gauge a foe’s intent. That one? He had a demon possessing his tongue.
“Why the hell are you piss-marking the place in the middle of the night, huh? You really made me crawl out of bed for this?”
Rem said—and there were two things wrong with that statement.
One: crying wasn’t piss-marking.
Two: no one had called him here.
‘Why did he even come out…’
Just as Encrid was about to step forward, the white lion finally lifted her head—unable to hold back.
In her tear-stained eyes, something like fury appeared.
More accurately, it was frustration.
“Grrngh, fu—ck you, what the he—ll…”
The beastkin’s choked-out shout didn’t finish.
Smack, crack!
Rem didn’t hesitate. Sitting down, he slid his left leg to the side and swung her right elbow horizontally.
A blow delivered with a rotating waist from a squat.
Had it not been this situation, the perfect form from such a position might’ve earned applause.
“Impressive.”
Even Audin expressed admiration.
At any rate, the elbow slammed into the beastkin’s head.
She rolled forward.
“Gack!”
A groan spilled from her mouth as she tumbled.
“Wait—can we just talk for a second?”
Krys stepped in to stop Rem.
Encrid should’ve supported him too.
At this rate, he might actually beat her to death.
“This little cat bitch, hissin’ at me—”
From Rem’s sulky tone, it looked like he really would.
“Don’t kill her.”
Encrid said calmly, and Rem raised her hands.
“Fine, fine. I just gave her a lil’ tap. Just a tap, like, y’know? Like a ‘nice to meet you’ pat.”
At this rate, two greetings and half a squad might be dead.
“So, where are you from?”
After crying from pain, getting mocked, bursting with frustration, and getting beaten again—the white lion gave in.
She wanted to live. She felt bitter. And honestly, she had no loyalty worth dying for.
Her fame in the mercenary world? She hadn’t even wanted it.
It was something she could lose.
She hadn’t stashed any kron or purses in the bandit camp.
She’d blown all her earnings.
So, Dunbakel opened her mouth without much resistance.
“Black Sword.”
“The bandits? That group?”
“Yeah.”
When she nodded, Krys’s expression hardened.
“Well, damn.”
Encrid listened in silence.
It had been luck that stopped them, but he had no way of knowing what lay behind this.
Company Commander Marcus had asked if he loved the city.
And now, to protect it at such a moment—this result wasn’t half bad. It was satisfying.
But something gnawed at him.
‘Too weak.’
The city’s outer defense force was pitifully underpowered.
Maybe it was just his standards that had gotten too high, but if something like this happened again, it’d be a problem.
Another attack like this, and the patrol forces wouldn’t even get a chance to fight back before dying.
There was even one guy in a soldier’s uniform trying to open the side gate.
It couldn’t be helped that there were spies in the city—but one openly opening a gate? That was a problem.
This had happened right under his nose. He saw it with his own eyes—so it was only natural he wanted to do something.
But for now, there was nothing he could do.
“Captain, we should file a report first.”
At some point, Krys had come up beside them and spoke.
Rem, watching this, asked,
“You’re really gonna let this one live?”
“We have to.”
Krys replied quickly—probably thinking if they didn’t stop him, Rem might literally lop her head off.
Encrid nodded. He backed up Krys with that gesture and added,
“Take her in.”
Just hold her for now. The Company Commander would handle the rest.
With that decided, he turned to move—and spotted the soldiers, who had become mere spectators.
Turning around, his eyes met with one of the commanding officers.
He was wearing shoulder insignia. As soon as their eyes met, the man gave a military salute.
A platoon leader. A face Encrid had seen in passing.
Though Encrid held the rank of Company Commander, it hadn’t been officially recognized yet.
So this was the first time he had received such a crisp salute.
Encrid sheathed his sword and responded by tapping the pommel with his palm.
“Thanks to you!”
“That’s enough.”
He replied, then turned his back. The platoon leader had gone from deeply shocked to deeply moved.
If not for Encrid—
If not for that Madman Platoon—no, Company—
He would’ve died, just like the attackers.
Left a cold corpse, wife behind.
And not just him—many of the men he considered like brothers would’ve gone with him.
As he got lost in that thought, Krys trotted up again and said,
“The Black Sword stuff stays secret.”
“…Mm. Got it.”
Right now, he was willing to accept whatever was said.
“We’ll file the report from our side.”
Krys kept talking and stayed glued to the scene under the guise of handling the bodies.
What was he up to?
“Shouldn’t our company be the one to collect the spoils?”
His eyes gleamed, and his tone was nothing short of assertive.
And, well, he wasn’t wrong.
The platoon leader had his men carry the manticore carcass.
They also searched the bodies of the dead.
There were no kron purses, but the weapons they used were all made of high-quality steel.
It would make for a solid haul.
And Krys was not the type to let an opportunity like this slip by.
