Chapter 211
The First Company Commander of the Turtle Heavy Armor Unit, Graham, did his job.
“Who are we!”
At the captain’s lead.
“Woohah!”
His subordinates responded.
“We are the wall! The moving fortress of the Border Guards!”
At the captain’s shout once more.
“We are the wall!”
The Turtle Heavy Armor Company soldiers strained their vocal cords and let out something close to a roar. Miraculously, the message got across. As much as they abused their vocal cords, their morale soared.
Separate from Encrid’s group’s exploits, Graham sought to become a wall.
It was what his company did best, and it had been the plan from the beginning.
Graham had expected to face his old rival, Greg’s assault company.
The Assault Company of Martai and the Heavy Armor Company of the Border Guards had been long-time rivals.
But there was no chance to confront Greg.
Because over at Encrid’s side, five people had charged in and split apart Greg and his Assault Company.
After witnessing that, Graham’s battle became surprisingly leisurely for a battlefield.
“Raise shields!”
The Heavy Infantry’s specialty could be boiled down to a simple strategy.
Raise the shields and hold.
“Two steps!”
Close the gap. Thud! Thud!
“Two steps” meant to advance two paces. Though slow due to the standardized marching pace drilled into them, it was uniform and stable.
The turtles crawled forward.
“Strike!”
The third command was to swing their heavy blunt weapons while maintaining the shortened distance.
They were all armed with iron hammers, each tipped with a rounded head.
Bam-bam-bam!
A level of violence that mere leather helmets or simple armor couldn’t withstand.
Crack!
One hammer smashed down on a Martai soldier’s shield. The circular wooden shield split vertically.
After that, the flying hammer could only be blocked with one’s skull.
Crunch!
It was natural that skulls would crack and bodies would collapse, bleeding.
Swords and blades could be deflected, but what could you do against a hammer?
Corpses of enemy soldiers piled up before the heavy infantry.
Here and there, a few agile enemies slipped through and thrust their swords, but—ting!
The heavy infantry had spent their Krong to outfit themselves with plated and chainmail armor.
Even if an enemy sword lucked into piercing the chainmail, it would still have to get through the thickly padded inner armor of cloth and leather underneath.
“Die!”
One of the Turtle Heavy Armor soldiers who got stabbed in the side shouted and swung his hammer.
The hammer, falling vertically from above, crushed the shoulder of the soldier who had thrust his spear.
“Gragh!”
With one arm rendered useless in a single blow, the next was inevitable.
Thud—shoved by a shield and trampled to death.
They were slow movers, but once they got close, the Turtle Heavy Armor Company under Graham had terrifying biting power.
Slow violence pounded the entire battlefield front.
However—
‘Even with all this.’
Graham’s company wouldn’t attract attention.
Because over on one side, Encrid and his companions were relentlessly increasing the battlefield’s casualty count.
Doing what fifty heavy infantrymen couldn’t, with only five people.
Such people were called an “abnormal force,” and those who stood at the top among them were called knights.
Right now, they might not be called knights yet.
‘At least Junior Knights.’
Graham had discerning eyes.
“Raise shields!”
And so, the simple heavy infantry tactics continued. There was no one left to stop them.
Because those who should have stood in their way had already been torn apart, smashed, struck, sliced, and stabbed by someone else.
—
The Border Guard Captain glanced sideways and asked quietly.
“May I ask your name?”
Ahead of them, a separate detachment was beginning to move.
All of them moved swiftly.
It must be the second dagger Martai had prepared.
That had to be it.
The Border Guard Captain could tell at a glance that this detachment was formed specifically to target them.
The Border Guards were nicknamed the Frontier Slaughterers.
A nickname earned by their ability to slash, cut, and fight well—a title highlighting their status as an elite force.
But now, that nickname seemed ill-fitting.
‘These days, just calling us the Border Guards feels enough.’
Why wouldn’t it?
There had been a time when a few elite soldiers could dominate the battlefield, with strategy and tactics revolving around them.
Those were the knights.
And when knights weren’t available, did they fight as before? No. They evolved, forming elite squads to emulate the tactics of knights.
Until now, the Border Guards had upheld that reputation. But now, their fame was cleanly overshadowed by the likes of Encrid and the Madman Company.
Not that there was any resentment about it.
‘One glance is enough. That guy’s a monster.’
The Captain acknowledged Encrid.
Truthfully, who among the standing forces of the Border Guards wouldn’t?
Everyone would recognize it.
Encrid was the kind of guy who made people feel good just by being around. The kind of guy who made something inside you boil. The kind of guy you simply couldn’t hate.
“No.”
At the end of his musings, he heard the Elf Commander refuse bluntly.
So she wasn’t even giving her name.
At thirty-six years old, the Captain was no longer young. His pupils wavered—but no one saw it. He subtly lowered his head so even the Elf wouldn’t notice.
Officially, they were of equal rank, but the Border Guard Captain held a special position, like a First Company Commander.
If the Border Guard Battalion Commander was weak, sometimes the Captain’s words carried more weight.
But the Elf Commander didn’t seem the least bit concerned.
‘She won’t even tell me her name.’
The Captain, nearing middle age, quietly folded away his lingering feelings.
He let go of the flutter of emotions that had come to him belatedly and prepared for battle.
Yet, one last bit of longing made him add a question.
“Are you really that close with Encrid?”
Sinar stared straight at the Border Guard Captain and answered.
“What you wish for and what happens are different things.”
It was a colorless expression. A voice devoid of emotion.
The Captain closed his mouth, then opened it again.
“Zennok.”
His second bit of lingering affection made him reveal his own name.
Sinar didn’t even nod.
At that moment, Torres came up from behind and poked the Captain’s side.
“Told you not to.”
The Captain didn’t respond.
Torres had tried to stop him before he even said it.
But what could he do?
If his pure heart was burning, and he died without saying it now, whose fault would that be?
“Today, I’ll fight with all my passion.”
The Captain declared. Torres nodded. Behind them, the key members of the Border Guard all lit up their eyes.
For their lovesick Captain.
Their eyes cried out their rallying call. Soon, the dagger unit prepared by Martai closed in on the designated point.
Elf Commander Sinar had come to support this side, but she brought no subordinates. None under her command could match the strength needed to keep up with the Border Guard’s elite.
The commander of Martai’s dagger unit looked flustered. Their discipline was crumbling, and their formation was falling apart. When a commander’s mind is frantic, the troops inevitably suffer.
Rather than checking their surroundings, they focused too much on advancing quickly.
At their flank, the Border Guard charged.
“For heartbreak!”
One of the Border Guards shouted.
“Who the hell was that!”
The Captain shouted as well.
One of Martai’s dagger unit soldiers twisted his body to the side. A warrior wielding twin swords, his eyes were sharp and slanted, giving him a fierce look.
Following him, the rest turned to face them. It was a clash between Martai’s dagger unit, which had aimed at the Border Guards’ main force’s flank, and the Border Guard, now striking the dagger unit’s flank.
The twin sword warrior’s reaction speed was extraordinary.
He closed the distance and aimed both blades straight at the Elf Commander’s neck.
Fast hands. Swift reaction. A flawless transition into attack. He was first-rate.
Until that moment, Sinar had been standing still, one hand resting on her hip. Now she moved.
She stepped back, drew her knives, and swung them upward toward the crossing swords. Her leaf-shaped blades split both the sunlight and the twin swords.
Clang!
“Where do you think you’re aiming?”
Sinar replied lazily, dancing with her knives.
With every swing, a mist of blood rose. Those cut and stabbed collapsed to the ground.
Torres, meanwhile, had already closed in on an enemy wielding a sword and shield. He drew a hidden dagger from his wrist and slit the man’s throat.
A precise strike aimed at the gap between helmet and armor tore open the man’s nape.
He shoved the gushing enemy aside.
After killing one, he moved next to his Captain and glanced sideways—just in time to see Sinar performing a sword dance rivaling Encrid’s.
“How could you not fall for that?”
The Captain muttered.
“You fell for that?”
Torres, inwardly shaking his head, answered.
Wasn’t that just a massacre?
Of course, this was a battlefield, and she was an ally, so it wasn’t a massacre—it was a feat.
What was certain was that this Elf was absolutely not beneath Encrid or the Madman Company.
There was no way this fight would be even.
“You crazy bitch!”
Among the enemy, there was a group of warriors with tattooed faces. Their apparent leader let out a furious roar.
At the curse, the Captain and some soldiers moved.
“Rip that mouth apart!”
At the lovestruck Captain’s cry, his men charged. The battle was overwhelmingly one-sided.
Thanks to the main force’s victory. The side that moved first was supposed to be at a disadvantage, yet Martai’s dagger unit had moved first, and even that wasn’t enough to counterbalance the brilliance of Elf Commander Sinar.
Now, it was no longer about worrying whether they would win, but about finding ways to minimize casualties.
—
The Blade that Fells Elites.
When had that become his name?
The memory was hazy.
He erased his presence. Even his footsteps made no sound.
He wove through dying allies, his gaze fixed on a few enemies.
One particularly vicious-looking guy was encouraging his subordinates while firing arrow after arrow.
Taking that guy out would help the battlefield.
He licked his lips with his tongue but restrained the urge.
No—he hadn’t come this far just to kill someone like that.
He lowered his posture. Held his breath. Regardless of skill, he squeezed through the gaps between enemies and allies, crawling or walking.
Sometimes, when an enemy rushed at him unaware, he silently dragged them in and twisted their necks, strangling them to death.
Silent killing was one of his specialties.
He was walking when—
“Are you giving up becoming a squire?”
A memory stabbed through his brain like a shard. It was what his last swordsmanship teacher had said.
And what had he answered?
Without a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.
“Yes.”
“Will you let your talent rot?”
If you became a knight order squire, you would start by running errands and doing chores for knights and Junior Knights.
After proving your ability, you would be promoted to Junior Knight. From there, if you regressed, you became a run-of-the-mill mercenary or warrior.
If, after becoming a Junior Knight, you learned to circulate [Will] throughout your body, you became a Knight.
What was that step called again? Flow? Something about an unbroken stream?
It didn’t matter. There were few knights, and each organization called the stages differently anyway.
Either way, even when told that the path upward was open to him, he gave it up.
“Fool.”
His teacher had been furious. But he hadn’t been angry himself.
There was no reason to be.
Fighting was fine. Killing was even easier. But there was no real reason to bother.
Thus, he gave up being a squire and left the knight order.
He wandered and, during his prime as a mercenary, was approached by Count Molsen.
The man called the King of the Frontier.
It sounded like an arrogant nickname, but it wasn’t a bad offer.
“Want to work under me?”
He nodded.
“Do you regret not walking the path of a Junior Knight?”
The Count asked. The man smiled and answered.
“I may not become a Junior Knight, but I can kill Junior Knights.”
That was his answer. He mastered silent steps and, instead of [Will], he took up sharp blades.
One day, he saw the Elf-exclusive weapon called the Needle and sought out similar swords.
The blades he acquired were strapped to his waist, chest, and both forearms.
Swords resembling stilettos, with tips shaped like sharp awls.
They were made by an unknown artisan who had seen the Carmen Collection, the legendary assassins’ blades—crafted for piercing plate armor, chainmail, anything—to punch holes in enemy bodies.
Blades of solid Valerian steel.
It was also a gift from Count Molsen. Thanks to this weapon and his skills, he soon earned the nickname “the Blade that Fells Elites.”
If a handful could dominate the battlefield, then it made sense to have a blade meant solely for slaying that handful.
His goal was simple: someday, he would punch a hole through the neck of a so-called knight.
In fact, there were times when he came dangerously close to ending a Junior Knight’s life.
Sometimes, instead of a head, he would walk away with a few fingers as trophies.
“Such wasted talent.”
He recalled the words of a Junior Knight who had lost fingers to him.
Like he cared.
It wasn’t something the one who had been beaten by him had any right to say.
The memories faded, and he refocused on the current battlefield. His goal was clear.
‘The black-haired bastard.’
The one who tore through the battlefield with his group of five.
The one at the forefront, the one who had stated his name, the one who stood out from the beginning.
The bastard named Encrid.
He seemed about the level of a Junior Knight. Which only made him more excited. Killing someone like that would be exhilarating.
‘Kill one, hide, and then take them out one by one.’
A man with both keen eyes and skill was rare. Therefore, his opponent wouldn’t even recognize him.
Like most Junior Knights, he’d surely be full of arrogance.
He had already disguised himself in a common soldier’s armor and helmet, rolling through the dirt and blood of others to blend in.
Covered in another man’s blood and grime, he dragged his feet as he approached.
He calculated the distance from the blond one, ignored the axe-wielding madman rampaging nearby, and slid into the narrow gap.
He closed in on Encrid’s side.
A thrill filled him—pure excitement.
‘Even if I can’t rise, I can still kill.’
That had always been his guiding principle.
He gripped the crafted assassin’s dagger in his hand. Held his breath. Aimed for an opening and struck. In one swift step, he closed the distance. A fatal blow.
The footwork was something he had learned during his squire days.
Creeping this close without being noticed meant the fight was already over. Or so he thought, as he thrust his blade.
Clang!
‘Blocked?’
He saw it—a dagger, blackened, catching his blade.
“What are you?”
A voice filled with disappointment—or perhaps pity—followed.
And then, from behind, a sharp slash came flying at him. Reflexively, he rolled forward.
Ahead, he caught sight of a speck—no, the tip of a sword. He ducked.
Dodging twice was impressive enough.
But the last blow was beyond anything he could avoid.
A tree trunk–like leg swept across the ground toward him.
Crack, crunch!
“Grugh!”
It was Audin’s low kick. Both his legs broke at once.
A terrifying combination of raw strength and technique.
Rather than sending him flying, it shattered his bones on the spot.
His upper body collapsed downward, and his head hit the ground first before bouncing up slightly, leaving him crumpled on the floor.
An involuntary acrobatic feat created by sheer brute force.
Before he could even regain his senses, a sword came down toward his head. In his fading vision, he saw a pair of blue eyes.
Thud.
That was the end.
Because he had tilted his head to the side at the last moment, the sword only cut into his shoulder. It spared his life for now, but he lay on the ground, bleeding heavily.
He was as good as dead.
The man writhed on the ground.
The owner of those blue eyes looked at him briefly, then turned away.
In the dying man’s fading mind, the words of his last sword instructor resurfaced.
“Why abandon your talent?”
He had asked.
The man should have answered then.
‘I didn’t abandon it, you idiot. I never had it to begin with.’
If he had been capable of climbing higher, he would have. But he had always been surrounded by monsters. Only monsters everywhere.
It hadn’t taken long to realize the limits of his own talent.
That was when his goal shifted—from becoming a knight to becoming the one who killed knights.
And so, his dream ended.
The sword of Count Molsen, who lived as “the Blade that Fells Elites” with no name left, was broken just like that.
Encrid might never even know it happened.
However—
“What a madman.”
Rem’s words summed it all up. He charged right into this?
It was no different than rushing headlong into five Junior Knights.
And it wasn’t as if any one of them was careless or weak.
At any given moment, in any given situation, Encrid always sought the best move, always swung his sword with his full heart and soul.
Whether it was a killing blow or a single step forward, he put everything into it. That was simply the kind of man he was.
In a way, this was the true reason he could be called a monster.
Meanwhile, the ever-sly Jaxson had also been waiting for this fool to dive right into their midst.
He caught him the moment he recklessly charged in.
It was almost too easy a hunt.
‘Though calling it a hunt feels a bit wrong.’
Rem thought to himself as he smashed his axe against another weapon.
Clang!
“Come at me harder!”
Rem shouted.
Before they knew it, the surrounding soldiers had all pulled back. A wide clearing had formed around them.
A clearing made of corpses, blood, severed limbs, and spilled entrails.
Standing in the middle of it, Encrid looked around, feeling his muscles tremble slightly.
It was the backlash from pushing himself and from the power of the [Heart of Monstrous Strength]. But was it a problem? No. It was stiff, but still usable.
He looked around. The sky was clear. No sign of rain. Though the stench of blood was thick in the air, the morale of his allies—drunk on victory—pushed against his back.
He had charged deep into enemy lines, but now he could even hear Benzense’s voice in the distance.
Taking it all in, Encrid felt a new surge of vigor.
“My name is Encrid.”
It was just a few words.
And yet, when those words pierced the ears of the enemy soldiers, there was no furious reaction like before.
At the center of the battlefield, around the clearing Encrid had created, only a chilling silence spread.
“If you come at me, you’ll die.”
Encrid said.
(T/N: Damn. I think this is the only arc up to date that really displayed everyone’s skill, right? I really love their dynamics. )
