Chapter 210

Jaxson had expected the cavalry wouldn’t go too far before stopping. Losing men in a single charge would make any commander pull back—that was only logical.

So instead of facing the charge head-on, he lowered his stance and moved.

While everyone else focused on the charging cavalry,

While all eyes were on those who repelled the charge,

Jaxson aimed for the place where the cavalry would most likely halt and made his move in advance.

He moved before the horses did. Over short distances, assuming he committed to the sprint, he was confident he wouldn’t fall far behind mounted troops.

And here was the result.

He kicked the thigh of a man whose head had just been pierced, unseating him by forcing his foot out of the stirrup and pushing him sideways with his own hands.

Thud! Down went the commander. Jaxson remained composed.

He climbed into the saddle and lightly patted the horse’s neck with the back of his hand.

The horse, which had been twitching in resistance, soon calmed.

Without looking back, Jaxson spurred the horse forward and returned to Encrid’s side.

Clop-clop!

The sound of hooves echoed crisply through the silence.

The surrounding cavalry failed to seize the moment, stunned by how calm he was.

“Damn stray cat, off having fun all by yourself,” Rem said, welcoming the returning Jaxson.

“Stupid barbarian, go have your brainless brawls,” Jaxson replied with his own greeting, dismounting and smacking the horse’s rump.

Neigh! The horse galloped off toward an empty patch of ground.

Dust rose like a heat haze in its wake.

Despite being in the middle of a battlefield, Rem and Jaxson exchanged fierce looks as if nothing else existed around them.

Encrid, who should’ve intervened, was lost in thought and suddenly spoke.

He’d been chewing on this for a while.

“Wouldn’t things have been different if they hadn’t anchored the shaft and just swung freely?”

If the shaft wasn’t hooked at the rear, even if the blade broke, they could’ve just let go. But by attaching the rear of the shaft to rings at their flanks and saddle armor, they delayed their own reactions.

He figured that’s why their response to the first strike had been so poor.

They had no chance.

Rem, watching Encrid ramble nonsense again, sighed and responded—ending his silent stare-down with Jaxson. Jaxson too shook his head and averted his eyes.

“If you try bracing your waist as a pivot, you’d have to absorb all the impact of the charging horse. Think your back wouldn’t break? Huh?”

Encrid wouldn’t break. But for anyone else lacking that level of training? They could snap in half.

Understood.

Encrid’s point was this:

The enemy’s attack was too simple and too linear.

And to top it off, they anchored the shaft at the side? During a charge? It might work well against weaker opponents, but in a clash like this, it was bound to fall apart.

No wonder they couldn’t respond.

Encrid had, perhaps unintentionally, identified the core flaw in the enemy cavalry.

Those glaive-wielding cavalry were designed to slash through unprepared enemies—those unable to counterattack.

‘Instead of anchoring the rear of the shaft, they should’ve trained their strength.’

Now that he had faced them, their weaknesses were clear.

A sudden realization.

Encrid had the ability to assess and dissect his opponents’ flaws.

And that was the seed of further growth.

‘Good.’

Even apart from stopping the cavalry, Encrid’s eyes glimmered faintly.

The remaining cavalry, having seen it all, stood frozen in hesitation. But eventually, someone gave the order again.

“Charge! Kill them all!”

That kind of nerve—after all they’d just seen—was remarkable in itself.

Encrid raised his drawn sword again and met the charge head-on.

He’d done it once. Why not again?

The previous clash hadn’t relied on luck.

It had been a matter of skill, not chance.

“A damned antlion pit.”

That was Marcus’s verdict as he watched. From the opposite side, enemy commander Olf cursed the cavalry’s stupidity—then, quickly made the best possible decision.

Retreating now would’ve been the real mistake.

“Advance!”

The infantry of Martai began to move. A skirmish was beginning.

But before they could clash, the cavalry scattered and retreated, collapsing en masse.

And since it was just five who had done it, the morale of the Martai infantry plummeted.

* * *

“Ragna and I will take the front. Rem on the right, Jaxson on the left. Audin will guard the rear.”

Before coming here, Encrid—leading a unit for the first time—had thought about formation.

Not in too much depth.

Just enough to ensure everyone held their own space without interfering with one another.

In a skirmish, friendly fire risks rise. Instead of using a defensive formation to minimize losses, he abandoned that idea.

This wasn’t the kind of battle where a small elite force could afford such luxury.

Instead, to reduce allied casualties, they simply had to increase enemy casualties faster.

That’s what led to this “reasonable formation.”

He figured sticking close together would work better than spreading out.

“Maintain spacing.”

These weren’t people bound to formation.

Audin, Ragna, and Jaxson—maybe. But that lunatic Rem? Would he actually follow orders?

Even Encrid was curious.

If Rem didn’t listen, he’d just let it go.

‘Then Ragna takes the front, and I’ll shift to the right.’

Jaxson, Ragna, or Audin might ignore orders too.

If that happened, he’d give up and just fight. There was no time to argue. No margin to persuade.

From that point on, all he could do was speak through his sword.

When he’d brought up the formation, Encrid had already decided what he would do in his heart.

And then—

“Got it.”

Rem took position first—on the right. About three steps of distance. Just outside sword range, but close enough to assist if needed.

“Spacing is three steps then. Understood.”

Jaxson also moved to the left.

Starting with Rem and Jaxson, Ragna stepped forward two paces.

And lastly, Audin took up the rear.

“……They’re not rushing out on their own?”

Encrid, almost reflexively, turned to Rem and asked,

“You’re actually listening? Just like that?”

It was too easy. He couldn’t help being surprised.

“What’re you babbling about? You think there’s time to run your mouth with those bastards charging right at us?”

There wasn’t. The enemy infantry was crashing forward like madmen.

There was no time to ask the others.

“…Advance.”

Encrid murmured. Quiet, but unmistakably firm for those around him.

Ragna matched pace with Encrid. No matter what anyone said, Encrid was clearly the core of the formation now.

Was this really happening? Were they all really listening so obediently?

It was absurd—but not something to complain about.

WAAAAAAHHH!

Through the enemy’s roars—

“Kill them all!”

“Die, you bastards!”

“Fucking dogs!”

Some of the soldiers at the front screamed with fear, some with madness, and some remained eerily composed.

Everyone reacts differently.

Fear, rage, and calm blended into a harmony of curses and war cries.

It was the orchestra of the battlefield.

Encrid didn’t run. He simply lengthened his stride, and the others moved in step behind him.

Their morale was far superior.

The discipline spread like a wave—and Encrid felt it in his bones.

“WAAAAHH—YOU MORONS!”

He heard the roar of his allies erupt behind him as he met the first enemy soldier.

The second impact of the cavalry’s earlier charge was even more powerful.

The first had ended in stunned disbelief. The second—though anticipated—repeated the same outcome, only worse.

The shredded cavalry had already retreated. Had they pressed forward again, they’d have earned the title of biggest fools on the continent.

That’s why the fear that now replaced composure and madness in the eyes of the frontline soldiers wasn’t anyone’s fault—it was inevitable.

A blade flew through the air, and heat followed it.

Encrid brought his sword down. A clean vertical strike from above—right at the crown of the skull.

Thud, Crack!

The first blow shattered the soldier’s head. It exploded like a melon, spraying blood and brain matter in every direction.

Droplets splattered across Encrid’s leather helmet.

Even as the blood poured, Encrid was already swinging horizontally, cleaving another soldier’s chest and left arm.

Slice!

If swordsmanship was important, then the weapon was part of the art too.

That’s how Encrid saw it—and he made full use of his sword’s power.

Its unmatched sharpness and strength sliced through the wave of charging soldiers, again and again.

Formation? He didn’t care.

There was only one thing that mattered:

Fight together—closely enough.

That was the intent. Encrid thrust himself through the enemy like the tip of a blade.

Naturally, Rem and the others followed his lead. The charge of the Madman Company was like a knife plunging into a ripe apple. Soon, they were deep inside enemy lines.

And what happens when you charge that deep?

Encirclement. They were now surrounded by enemies on all sides—a fight with the enemy crowding in.

Was that a poor tactic? Not necessarily.

“Brothers, off to heaven!”

Audin roared from the rear.

His fists and club moved faster than breath.

Whumph, Crack! Whoosh, Thwack!

On the right, Rem cackled as he swung his axe.

His storm of strikes crushed swords, split skulls, and shattered armor.

“Come on, more! I’m getting real excited now!”

He shouted, soaked in blood.

Between his blood-drenched helmet and face, only his gray eyes flickered.

As fear began to descend upon the enemy, the front ranks faltered.

“You bastards!”

Then, someone from the left charged in.

Encrid didn’t know, but it was Greg, the First Battalion Captain.

Olf’s most trusted war hound—he was stopped by Jaxson, wielding a thin blade.

A man who until now had remained unseen.

Greg didn’t underestimate him—but neither had he held him in high regard.

He swung a hexagonal mace.

A heavy strike, difficult to deflect.

A diagonal swing targeting the collarbone. Dodge, and the formation falters. Block, and you’re overwhelmed. The power gap was clear.

Encrid caught the motion out of the corner of his eye but didn’t worry.

‘No chance.’

Did Greg think Jaxson was the easiest one to take head-on?

He’d lingered near Rem—yet didn’t attack him. Instead, he circled left.

He’d targeted Jaxson.

The red-brown-haired soldier met the mace with his narrow blade.

If you couldn’t dodge—you could redirect.

Shiiing!

He took the blow on the flat of his blade and diverted it with strength to the side.

Metal screeched and sparks flew. Jaxson’s face remained blank, like he was just doing his job.

For a casual move, it was incredibly refined.

You could see he had properly mastered the fundamentals of the [Flowing Blade].

“Huh?!”

Greg, realizing the strike had gone off course, tried to force the mace back with raw power.

“Idiot.”

Jaxson murmured. Greg heard it clearly.

This bastard? Greg cursed with his eyes and stamped the ground hard, trying to reassert control.

He would press down with brute force again. If that bastard tried redirecting it again, he’d drop his weapon and crush his windpipe with his bare hands.

Greg had faith in his martial prowess.

He envisioned the tide of battle turning with a single move—his enemy’s neck snapping.

The strange part was, the same scene kept playing over and over in his mind.

Drop the mace. Lunge. Break the neck. Crack!

Drop the mace. Lunge. Break the neck. Crack!

Drop the mace. Lunge. Break the neck. Crack!

Then suddenly, the world spun. When he looked down, the guy who had called him an idiot was already stabbing his sword elsewhere.

He saw a soldier scream as a blade pierced straight through his visor and out the back of his head.

“Grrraah!”

‘Why can I see all this…?’

Greg looked down—and saw it:

Splurt!

Blood erupting from his own body.

The lifeless body collapsed forward with a thud, flinging red paint in all directions.

Blood gushed from where the head had been, like water from a tipped bucket.

The fallen man’s armor looked eerily similar to his own.

That was the end. Thought ceased. Darkness swallowed everything.

* * *

As the man who had targeted Jaxson staggered aside, Ragna struck.

No need for [Severance]; he used the [Steel Slash].

The armor wrapping the neck looked tough, but it meant nothing.

Pak, Shhk!

Armor, vertebrae, tendons—all cleaved. A textbook [Steel Slash] of the [Heavy Sword Style].

The head flew through the air, and strangely, the eyes seemed to blink.

Ragna looked away without care.

He was exhilarated.

‘What fascinating bastards.’

He meant all of them, including Encrid.

Where could one possibly gather such people?

An accumulation of accidents.

A prank played by the goddess of fortune.

That must have created this situation.

‘Or maybe not.’

Isn’t life, after all, a journey that begins with coincidence and ends in inevitability?

Maybe this wasn’t luck at all. After all, if it weren’t for Encrid, Ragna wouldn’t be here. So this was destiny.

But could Rem and the others really be excluded?

He’d met similarly skilled people during his aimless life before. Naturally, it had stopped him in his tracks.

Coincidence and inevitability—those thoughts faded.

What remained was joy, thrill.

Emotions Ragna seldom felt while wielding a sword now drenched him. He was overflowing with exhilaration.

Which is why—

His sword grew fiercer, sharper, faster.

Before long, even Encrid had to match rhythm with Ragna.

Now that Ragna had stepped forward and begun his swing, he was no different from a grim reaper.

In the enemy’s eyes, he was no longer something to be feared, but something beyond comprehension.

“Uuuaaaagh!”

“Please! Spare me!”

“He’s a monster!”

It wasn’t war cries anymore—it was sobbing.

Screams and despair began to color the battlefield.

The orchestra was coming to its end.

“…What kind of monsters are these…”

A former squad leader who once tried to trap Encrid at the supply line had now joined the battlefield.

A sigh of disbelief escaped his lips.

Had he survived, he might have become a fine commander or an excellent soldier. But he wouldn’t survive.

An axe swung at his chest and passed clean through.

“Guh!”

His sternum collapsed and his heart burst. Agonizing pain rippled through his body. He collapsed with blood spilling from his eyes.

By the time the number of dead crossed one hundred—

* * *

“Fuck.”

Olf felt it.

No—he knew it.

This was beyond defeat.

‘Five Junior Knights?’

Son of a bitch. And they’d kept it hidden so well.

Olf was no longer disheartened. He was shaken. Five Junior Knights? This wasn’t a knight order. What kind of setup was this?

Even if they weren’t all Junior Knights, how did they manage to hide five warriors with that level of power?

Olf couldn’t accept it.

This wasn’t a military loss.

This was a political victory—a victory for the one who hid them best.

This was all possible because Marcus had hidden Encrid so well.

“Maintain the skirmish.”

A commander without a crest ran past and shouted.

But there was nothing left to maintain.

The flow of battle no longer belonged to Olf.

From here on, his life, this beginning, and its end—all were in Marcus’s hands.

Morale, momentum—everything on the battlefield now belonged to the politician.

“What a bastard.”

To be blindsided by a single blow thanks to a subordinate’s strength—who could understand Olf’s despair?

Could this even be called strategy or tactics?

Just hiding the power of five?

If someone were to name this battle, one name would be most fitting—

Marcus Hides Encrid.

* * * * * *

Translator’s Note:

Hey everyone, just a quick heads-up — starting next week, chapter releases might be a bit inconsistent for a while. My wife and I just had our baby, and I’ll be prioritizing taking care of them during this time. Depending on how things go, I might still be able to post chapters here and there, but I can’t promise a regular schedule just yet.

I really appreciate your patience and support. I’ll do my best to keep updates coming when I can, and I’ll let you all know once things start settling down and we’re closer to getting back to a steady rhythm.

Thanks again for sticking with me and this story. It means a lot.