Chapter 193

Marcus, at a midnight report.

“You never fail to surprise me.”

Starting with admiration.

“Thanks to you.”

He expressed near-excessive gratitude.

How could a battalion commander bow his head so low to a mere soldier—well, a company commander now, but still.

Encrid plainly listed the facts, saying it was all coincidence.

That was the end of it.

“I see.”

With Marcus’s farewell, he left the office.

The rest? That was Marcus’s responsibility as the one in charge of the Border Guards.

After finishing the report and coming out, the elf company commander followed as if to see him off and spoke. Her gaze was blankly cast forward.

It was a half-hearted tone and vacant gaze.

“Tonight, together? Since we must keep our chastity before the sacred union, we’ll just hold hands and sleep.”

“I won’t even hold hands. I’ll sleep alone. In my barracks.”

“I see.”

Was that really supposed to be a joke?

Parting ways with the elf company commander, Encrid returned to his barracks. He wiped his sweat off with water and laid down on his cot.

Water dripped from his wet hair. As he shook it off with his hand, he realized his hair had grown quite a bit again.

“Couldn’t even get a proper nap. If you’re going to come, show up properly, you bastards.”

“All things lie within the will of the Lord. Pray, brothers and sisters.”

“I heard something happened?”

“Kyareung.”

“Ugh, if the Black Sword came all the way out here, things must’ve really gone to hell.”

Each added a word before heading to bed like usual.

Though, they didn’t just sleep. At least Encrid didn’t.

He closed his eyes and reviewed the earlier fight.

Whether he won or lost, whether he overwhelmed or not—

There was always something to learn from battle. That’s how he’d been taught, and that’s how he’d lived.

This time was no different.

Just because he’d sliced his opponent clean through didn’t mean anything changed.

He fell asleep going over the fight again and again, and in his dream, ten white lions came at him.

But this time, too, he held his ground. They were manageable. Worth fighting.

Encrid suddenly realized how much he’d grown.

‘Should I call it laughable?’

What was his original battlefield like?

A place where he thrashed to survive.

A place he didn’t dare step forward in, just to stay alive. Where he had to stay back and read the mood to make it through.

But now?

Even knowing it was a dream, his chest tingled. After all that training and discipline, after all that time—what had he really wanted from the start?

With such thoughts stacking up, the dream should’ve twisted into nonsense.

Maybe it was the ferryman’s doing.

Even in a dream, his mind was unusually clear, almost like reality.

The strange part was that Esther was fighting beside him—but she didn’t look like a panther.

Pale skin to the point of being ghostly, sleek and smooth. She wore a black robe that sparkled despite its darkness.

It looked like it was made of luxury fabric.

“Is that what you really look like?”

“…Could you not talk to me in the Inner World?”

What was that supposed to mean now?

Despite not being a panther, the fact that he recognized her face felt uncanny even to Encrid himself.

Still, with that black hair and those blue eyes, anyone would’ve recognized her.

She told him not to acknowledge her, so he didn’t. It was a dream, but he ignored her.

‘But wait, isn’t this my dream?’

He started to wonder if she’d come from some part of his own mind.

Soon, the white lions charged again. The ten beasts swung claws and scimitars, but what started as a blood-soaked fight soon became a dance.

Come to think of it, he’d never asked how she learned [Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship].

In that moment, it didn’t seem to matter.

Rather—

‘She kept acting like she wanted to die, but suddenly she looked like someone clinging desperately to life.’

A strange beastkin. Even her appearance didn’t look like a typical beastkin.

A dream is just a dream. Tasks are tasks.

The lions showed up, but the dream—almost like a nonsense dream—quickly faded and vanished.

Encrid opened his eyes and sat up, staring at the ceiling of his barracks.

It was summer, and even at dawn, it was already bright outside.

So then, what should he do?

He started with the [Isolation Technique].

Then [sword training], and interspersed breaks to enhance his focus.

He didn’t forget to practice the [Hidden Knife Technique] and [Perception of Evasion] either.

Didn’t Jaxson say—

“Training is a daily routine. Especially sense training. It accumulates day by day, so you never skip it.”

That philosophy was oddly similar to Audin’s. The [Isolation Technique] also followed that school of thought, didn’t it?

“Brother, skipping a day and doing double the next won’t fix anything. That just damages the body. You do it daily. Every day, every day, every day. Brother, are you listening?”

He emphasized it so hard that it drilled into his ears.

Not that daily training was a burden. Encrid accepted it as only natural.

And so began a day of reviewing, checking, and honing what he had.

Whatever had happened yesterday, as Encrid moved through another identical day—

Marcus, the city’s overseer who had admired him the night before, was now discovering just how thick-skinned the bastard who took the Black Sword’s gold coins really was.

In its own way, this too was worthy of admiration.

* * *

Dunbakel confessed everything he knew.

Even after being imprisoned, it was the same.

“I was told to go stir up trouble at the Border Guards. That was the order. Me? I’m half a mercenary. I don’t know how this whole thing started. But I do know for sure—someone in the city’s connected.”

Marcus didn’t even ask who it was.

Instead, he summoned the noble who’d taken bribes to the prison. The man came down with his escort, and when asked if he knew anything, he gave this answer:

“I know nothing about this.”

The man frowned briefly, then added again.

“That beastkin filth, speak properly. You’re really claiming you’re the Black Sword? Are we supposed to believe the nonsense of a mercenary who moves for a few gold coins?”

He even lashed out in anger. Marcus found himself utterly dumbfounded as he watched this noble, who had taken bribes, talk down to the beastkin right to his face.

Could he really not just cut this bastard down?

Marcus turned his gaze away from the noble entirely.

Just watching him made Marcus want to cut the bastard down right then and there.

That didn’t mean he was planning to let things slide.

How could he ignore someone causing this much havoc?

‘Can’t exactly cut him down inside the city.’

He was still a noble. If something like this happened within the Border Guards, it might get brushed under the rug for now, but it’d likely become a problem later.

No matter how well he tried to cover it up—

‘It might become a weakness when operating in the capital. No, it definitely will.’

Thinking ahead, that was unacceptable.

‘Then what to do.’

People assumed that because of his nickname—the War Maniac—he knew nothing of political scheming. Ridiculous.

To be a central noble, one who clung to power, political intrigue was a requirement.

Marcus, too, was a politician. He had the talent to stab people in the back.

He made up his mind, thought it through, and reached a conclusion.

He couldn’t act here, but what if he sent him out with that one guy who always achieved more than ordered?

‘If I just send them out together, things might resolve themselves.’

Encrid—that guy.

He hadn’t even ordered a patrol. Just left him in the barracks, and he’d cut down the Black Sword elites, turned a manticore into a bloody pulp, and the cultist who came with them lost his head.

That was all just last night.

‘Let’s just try sending him along.’

And if nothing happened? That was fine too.

‘At least on the surface, send them out like that.’

Those Black Sword bastards had tried to pull something. He couldn’t let that slide either.

With deceit in his heart, Marcus spoke with a calm and righteous voice.

“Martai has started organizing troops.”

That part was true. A bastard in the mercenary city, calling himself a general, was preparing for war against the Border Guards.

Only a few sharp-eared folks knew, but rumors of a city-wide war would soon spread like wildfire.

“And we have no reinforcements.”

As he spoke, Marcus stepped to the side.

Fwoosh.

The torch fixed to the wall in the underground chamber lit one half of his face, plunging the other half into deeper shadow.

He looked like a man tormented by the burden of protecting his city.

Martai clearly had the military advantage. Marcus knew it. The noble knew it too.

That was why he suggested bringing in the Black Sword—utter nonsense.

As commander and city representative, it was a troubling decision.

“What about hiring them as mercenaries?”

He left the subject vague, but the noble’s ears perked up.

He couldn’t openly acknowledge the Black Sword as allies. But hadn’t that band of thieves done mercenary work before?

So the idea was to hire them discreetly for this operation.

The noble—Bansento, the one who took Black Sword’s gold—was all ears, though he struggled not to show it.

His face stayed neutral.

Finally hearing the words he’d been waiting for, Bansento almost opened his mouth immediately—but held back to avoid looking too eager.

He’d thought everything was ruined after the failed ambush, but no.

Maybe Marcus had lost patience? Maybe that was it.

‘Hire them as mercenaries, then gradually bring them inside.’

Bansento, who had once survived on quick wits as a child, was now an adult holding real power.

The sweet taste of power had pickled his brain.

He failed to see the situation clearly. And the guard from Black Sword standing beside him didn’t help.

“The one captured is a beastkin female named Dunbakel. She’s not hard to deal with, but saying she held off ten attackers alone is a lie. Even I would take time against ten. You think she held them off unprepared in the dead of night? That mad squad of hers must’ve been involved. The manticore? I don’t know. Probably just some rumor we should be skeptical of.”

The manticore carcass had been immediately hidden by the Gilpin Guild, leaving only rumors behind.

High-grade beasts were valuable even in death. Krys had planned to dismantle and sell it, so naturally, he stashed it in the guild—though it made the misunderstanding worse.

‘A manticore, really? What kind of nonsense are they spinning?’

It was a common pre-war tactic—bluffing your strength to mask your weakness.

Marcus must’ve schemed it.

Might as well blow things out of proportion while the ambush was fresh.

That’s likely why he was propping Encrid up now.

Bansento didn’t even bother to dig into the situation properly.

Neither did the Black Sword guard by his side.

They knew Encrid was different now. They knew his squad was decent.

‘But as long as we clash properly—’

Being strong didn’t mean surviving. The one who survived was the strong one.

The guard didn’t think he could win in a fight—but he was confident he could kill him.

He was arrogant.

Bansento was already fantasizing about a rosy future. Those dreams hardened both their minds. Narrowed their vision.

Thinking of such things, Bansento turned his gaze toward Dunbakel instead of giving an immediate answer.

“She doesn’t seem like a particularly famous mercenary.”

Without an alias, most mercenaries were treated like that.

“Execute her. When should we set out?”

Marcus looked at Bansento and wondered how this bastard had even made it this far.

Well, that was the downside of the outskirts—no real talent.

Though oddly enough, the current barracks seemed overflowing with talent.

“Tomorrow. Before Martai starts moving.”

That was the excuse.

Bansento’s face lit up in satisfaction.

Marcus was satisfied too, though he kept his expression grim.

The beastkin named Dunbakel was left to fade into the shadows.

“Execution… not now. Later.”

All she gained was a brief delay in death.

* * *

It all started with this.

“Did you hear? Martai made some ridiculous demand. Shouldn’t the capital send reinforcements or something?”

It was Benzense. Maybe he had the day off—he came to find Encrid and blurted it out.

And Krys, overhearing from nearby, exploded with his dialect.

“What reinforcements? They’re not coming. No, they won’t come. Why? Do I seriously have to explain this? Fine. Let me spell it out. A major war with monsters has broken out in the south. If it were just monsters, it’d be one thing—but the southern powerhouse, Rehinstützen, who shares a border with the region, quietly stepped in. That made it a matter of national survival. It’s already hard dealing with the Demon Realm monsters, and now Rehinstützen? Meanwhile, the Border Guards have proven their strength by blocking Azpen, and also bought time. Since it’s not Azpen but an internal conflict, there’s no reason for the central forces to intervene. Even if another group got involved, there’s still Baron Vantre and Count Molsen out west. Normally, we’d request reinforcements from both noble armies, but I don’t think that’s happening either. Vantre’s basically Molsen’s hunting dog, and Count Molsen is famous for not moving unless there’s profit involved.”

Encrid found it fascinating how Krys could gather all this information without even leaving his seat.

More than anything, it was incredible how his mouth never stopped moving.

“Doesn’t your throat hurt?”

“Huh? Not from this. I used to do one-man five-role puppet shows.”

That was quite the skill too.

Portraying five characters by himself couldn’t have been easy.

Knowing Krys, he probably never did things halfway.

If the price was good, he’d probably mortgage his own soul.

“And how many merchants pass through this city? The Border Guard may be a fortress city, but because of its unique position, it’s also the best trade hub in northern Naurilia. Just listening carefully is enough to hear things. That’s both the problem and the key to this whole mess.”

Krys cupped his hand behind his ear as he spoke.

His tone made it sound like it was obvious—but this was far from ordinary.

People who predict the future usually get called one of two things:

A fortune-teller, or a con artist.

Krys was neither. He was simply born with a knack for reading the times.

“And now the Black Sword bastards have arrived, and cultists too—it’s a mess. Say, you’re not thinking of transferring out of the Border Guard to another city, are you, Captain?”

Encrid didn’t even register the last question.

Even if he left—what about those who stayed behind?

“Was that a serious question? You’re not even thinking about defending the city!”

Benzense burst out in anger.

Krys wasn’t being serious, and Encrid knew that too.

“Yeah, yeah. Gotta defend it.”

“If you’ve eaten their food, do your damn job, frog-eyes.”

Encrid sided with Benzense.

“See, now I want to respond like Rem. Siding with someone else? That’d hurt my feelings, y’know? Rival? Is that what this is?”

Given his puppet show experience, Krys did a pretty convincing impression. He slouched, pouted, and spoke with exaggerated flair.

“Hmm? So you’d rather stick a battle axe in my head instead of a flower crown, is that it?”

Problem was—Rem had just stepped out in front of the barracks.

“…That’s not it.”

“So Benzon’s here again. You bored or what?”

Rem casually renamed Benzense and threw in his own remark. Benzense ignored his completely.

And then—

“Fiancé, you’re being summoned.”

The elf company commander spoke from just beyond the training field’s perimeter. Her upper body and face peeked just over the low fence.

Somehow, she was showing up more often than the official messengers lately. Why was a company commander running errands from the battalion commander?

“I volunteered because I wanted to see you.”

“…Did you.”

Encrid had grown used to elf-style jokes. He didn’t even bother reacting anymore.

“Frog-eyes, looks like you need some training too. Off you go. I’ll turn this one into a top-grade soldier in the meantime.”

Behind him, Rem handed Krys what was essentially a death sentence.

“Let’s go together! Captain! Captain!”

Encrid silently wished Krys peace and turned away.

Rem had been unusually pent-up lately, and sometimes venting like that probably helped.

SQUEEEEEEAAAK!

A pig-slaughtering scream rang out behind him, but Encrid ignored it.

“Murder is strictly forbidden within the unit.”

The elf company commander glanced back and commented.

“I won’t kill him.”

When Encrid replied, she paused and added:

“You’ll handle it well.”

There was a curious tone of confidence in her voice.

* * *

And so, upon entering the battalion commander’s office, Marcus immediately said:

“I’ve got a task for you. I’d like you to go as part of a delegation.”

He said it before Encrid could even salute. That meant he was in quite a hurry.

“A delegation?”

“Oh, come on. We’ll need to hire mercenaries, won’t we? So.”

Delegation and mercenaries—those weren’t words that went together well.

It also sounded like the battle with Martai was really on the horizon.

But… was it truly that much of a threat?

“I want you to accompany the delegation to the Black Sword bandits. Not as the envoy—just as their escort.”

Worse than ‘delegation and mercenaries’ was ‘delegation and bandits.’

Then ‘escort’ on top of that.

Why did Marcus’s eyes sparkle so intensely?

It was a look filled with expectations—his eyes practically shone like stars.

Encrid found it deeply unsettling.