Chapter 212
The moment the tide of the battlefield completely shifted, Marcus pulled back instead of tightening the encirclement.
When the retreat signal was given—flags waved and trumpets blew—the Border Guard troops, who had been wildly charging, halted their steps.
“Enough! This is where we stop!”
Starting with the advancing Turtle Heavy Armor Company, the allied forces began pulling back, and Rem grumbled.
“Come on, we’re just getting started.”
Blood dripped from the blade of Rem’s axe.
He said this with a smile, causing some of the soldiers, who were about to cheer, to glance nervously at him.
Even to Encrid, Rem’s energy was terrifying—but surely he wasn’t the kind of madman who would start swinging his axe at allies.
‘Maybe his fists, though.’
A random thought.
Even those called knights accumulated fatigue after prolonged battle.
And Rem was no different.
The finesse of his axe swings had started to dull, even if just slightly.
The five of them had cut down not just dozens, but well over a hundred enemies.
And it hadn’t even taken them long.
Anyone who witnessed this battle would never forget the names of the five standing at the center of it.
Especially since, right after Encrid spoke his name, the enemy froze. They were terrified. Fear had gripped them. Their momentum broke.
Marcus had opened a retreat path for the enemy at just the right time.
From afar, Marcus briefly glanced at Encrid’s group, then shifted his gaze elsewhere.
A blue flag was raised high.
It was the signal from the Border Guard detachment that had flanked to the right.
‘The separate force has been dealt with too.’
Judging by the damage across the frontline, calling it a decisive victory almost felt like an understatement.
The enemy had been defeated by five people.
A victory of politics. A victory of cunning.
A victory for the commander who had hidden Encrid well.
“Are we not pursuing?”
It was the Second Company Commander, panting as he approached. Marcus shook his head.
“Let them go. A cornered rat will bite a cat, and a cornered ghoul will use what little brain it has.”
From a safe distance—what he considered the safest place on the battlefield—Krys, sitting snugly at the command post, overheard Marcus and thought.
‘They’re letting them go.’
Even though it was a battle to the death, perhaps being under the same kingdom’s umbrella mattered.
‘A shame, though.’
It was the commander’s decision. He wasn’t in a position to object.
Even without the Madman Company, they could’ve used the heavy infantry or the Border Guard detachment to seize the enemy commander.
But they let them go.
Clearly, there had never been any real intention to capture the enemy commander.
Maybe Marcus intended to use this opportunity to showcase the Border Guard’s strength instead.
Still, a missed opportunity was a missed opportunity.
‘Capturing the enemy commander would’ve meant bigger gains later.’
Capturing and then releasing him could have extracted a hefty price from Martai.
‘Securing trade routes.’
The Border Guard was now ready to rise as a proper trade city.
Securing the routes through Martai would have been crucial.
Negotiating through a captured commander would have been the simplest way.
Was that all? No.
‘Ransom money.’
If that guy really was a general or whatever he called himself, he likely had a fortune.
When a noble is captured, it’s common practice to demand Krong for their release.
Even when dealing with enemy nations, it was standard practice.
And this one was Martai’s mayor and general. Technically an ally.
Martai was known as the “city of mercenaries,” and Krys knew very well how they accumulated Krong.
Which was why it was such a pity.
‘He must have amassed a fortune.’
At this point, Marcus was either a fool or a man without greed.
‘Doesn’t seem like a fool, though.’
Krys scratched his chin.
Judging by Marcus’s past actions—hiding Encrid, luring the enemy in, and crushing them—he clearly wasn’t an idiot.
And to entrust the entire outcome of the battle to a single man…
‘His guts aren’t just swollen—they’re bursting.’
It was a strategy so bold it bordered on madness.
And it worked.
Above the clear blue sky, cheers erupted.
“Uwoooooh!”
“Encrid!”
“If you charge!”
They raised their spears.
“You die!”
Thunk!
They pounded the ground with their spear tips as they shouted.
The surviving allies’ morale was higher than ever.
Which made it even more of a pity.
If they had pursued the retreating enemy, it would have been an even more efficient victory.
In full-scale battles, it’s during the retreat that the losing side suffers the most.
The pursuers hold all the advantage.
“Not much cavalry left either, right?”
Marcus’s voice rang out again. Krys perked up his ears.
“Yes, we wiped them out. Some of the cavalry had been held in reserve from the start.”
The adjutant answered.
“If we hadn’t opened their retreat path, those bastards would’ve rushed in and snatched that Olf brat away.”
That was a possibility.
Krys nodded inwardly.
It was an unexpected situation, but still, it might’ve been worth trying.
After that, Marcus fell silent for a while. The retreating enemy raised clouds of dust.
This battlefield was filled with humans, so no monsters or beasts lurked nearby.
In battles of this scale, even brainless ghouls would flee.
As the silence dragged on, even the adjutant seemed restless and spoke up.
“Shall we withdraw?”
It was time to retreat, regroup, and celebrate the victory.
It wouldn’t be bad to open bottles of wine and feast on foodstuffs to enjoy.
But Krys couldn’t help but feel it was inefficient.
‘What did we even gain from this battle?’
Krys thought of everything in terms of Krong. And by that measure, they hadn’t gained anything.
The joy of surviving? The thrill of crushing the enemy?
If it didn’t turn into Krong, what was the point?
Sure, rewards would come later, but there was no immediate gain. And that was frustrating.
Still, thinking the battle was truly over, just as he was ready to return—
After a long silence in response to the adjutant’s question, Marcus finally spoke.
“Advance the entire army.”
“…?”
Advance?
Krys tilted his head in confusion. This time, he couldn’t hide it. Fortunately, the only one who noticed was Finn, who was standing guard beside him.
“Why?”
Finn asked.
“We’re advancing?”
Krys whispered back. But advancing where?
Even the adjutant standing beside Marcus asked, surprised.
“Where are we advancing?”
“Where do you think?”
Krys caught a glimpse of Marcus’s face at that moment.
It wasn’t the face of a commander drunk on victory.
It was the expression a politician or merchant might wear, pleased that everything had gone exactly according to plan.
Meaning—it wasn’t over yet.
“Let’s go.”
Marcus bared his fangs as he spoke. In that bright, clear smile, Krys understood his true intentions. Light reflected sharply off Marcus’s teeth.
Spark.
‘Ah.’
From the beginning, he never intended to end this battle with just a hollow victory.
A short, intense realization struck Krys like a bolt. It wasn’t quite lightning, but it was close—a flash of revelation.
Krys learned something new.
‘If you let them go and chase afterward…’
The enemy would return to their hoarded treasures.
A cornered rat bites the cat, but if you let the rat flee, it scurries back to its nest filled with riches.
An opportunity to seize wealth.
Krys pushed his thoughts further.
He read Marcus’s true intention.
Was this just meant as pressure?
A warning not to attack the Border Guards again?
‘No way.’
Impossible.
If Martai cooperated, they could secure trade routes and massive benefits.
But if they seized the city outright?
Then everything would change. It wouldn’t just be about the trade routes anymore.
It would be as if the Border Guards had sprouted wings.
Martai was known as the Mercenary City of the East.
Its strength, influence, and strategic location were all invaluable.
If they could take it—and digest it—
“It would truly be a gourmet dish.”
Krys muttered.
Whether Marcus heard him or not, he flashed his fangs again and said:
Light still gleamed off his teeth.
Spark.
“We’re going to strike Martai.”
Marcus ordered the advance, and the command quickly spread through the troops.
—
Naturally, Encrid, standing at the forefront, heard the same order.
“Advancing from here?”
In a short moment, he processed the situation. What Krys said, their current condition, the morale and strength of their allies, and the potential issues if they pushed forward.
There were none.
Well—there was one nagging concern.
The five enemy mages who had been hidden still hadn’t shown up.
Were they holding them back as a trump card? Or had they fled once they saw the battle was lost?
No way to know.
Rather than thinking it through, Encrid instinctively understood Marcus’s intent.
‘We’re going to conquer the city.’
If the expanding Border Guards swallowed Martai, what would happen?
‘It’ll be great, that’s what.’
As for the aftermath—who cared? Encrid just did what needed to be done.
“If you’re tired, you can fall back,” he said gently to the other four.
“Are you crazy?”
“My name is Ragna, and I can still run.”
“Heh. Brother Captain, let’s go.”
Rem, Ragna, and Audin spoke up in turn, and then Jaxson silently swung his sword through the air—then discarded it.
He knelt down and picked up a relatively intact arming sword from the ground.
Seeing the curious looks, Jaxson muttered:
“The blade was worn.”
Though it was called an advance, there was no need to rush.
Marcus’s intent was clear: maintain morale, keep a steady march forward.
Encrid naturally took the lead.
“Ragna, were you teasing me earlier?”
Encrid asked as they marched. Ragna tilted his head before answering.
“I was sincere. My name is Ragna—the man who never retreats.”
Hearing that, Rem beside him started mimicking, mouthing, “My name is Rem,” and then burst out laughing.
They were crazy before, but now they were truly madmen.
Encrid thought so and kept walking.
The sun beat down on his back.
Heading east, the sunlight slanted from the west.
For a moment, a Border Guard soldier staring at Encrid’s back thought he saw him shining.
Of course, it was an illusion. A mirage.
But still, Encrid had accomplished feats worthy of such a glow.
One soldier, gifted at making up songs on the spot, began humming.
The lyrics were clumsy, the melody rough—a mishmash of familiar tunes—but when it came to the final chorus, everyone shouted together:
“Who is the flower of battle?”
“The infantry!”
“Who is the strongest of the Border Guards?”
“The Madmen!”
It was a ridiculous song. Encrid couldn’t help but let out a small laugh as he walked ahead.
It really hit him: they had become the strongest fighting force within the unit.
Cheers and songs followed him—songs naming him, Encrid.
“You like it?”
Rem asked beside him. His smirking face was irritating, but Encrid didn’t bother to point it out.
“It’s not bad.”
—
Marcus was not in a hurry.
There was no need to show themselves to the enemy.
General Olf returned to the city, and half a day passed.
Quietly and silently, like lynxes stalking prey, the Border Guards began setting up camp in front of the city.
Olf had no energy to send out scouts.
Naturally. It had been a defeat—a crushing defeat. They had only made it back because the enemy had opened a path. They had no luxury to look back.
They had returned with their shoulders slumped.
“Those damned bastards.”
Olf swore he would slit Marcus’s throat the next chance he got.
Bang!
Fueled by frustration, self-loathing, anger, and humiliation, he punched the wall.
The wood caved inward.
“Your bathwater is ready,” said his chamberlain.
“Fine.”
It was time to disarm, wash, and purge the rising emotions—fatigue, irritation, rage—and rest.
Olf didn’t even want to see his wife and daughter. He headed straight for his office.
‘I’ll sleep on the couch today. That’ll be better.’
With that thought, he entered his office—but there was no way he could sleep.
It wasn’t long after that.
“General!”
The office door burst open.
The adjutant must have sprinted all the way here alongside the messenger, judging by how out of breath he was.
Olf, wearing a silk shirt and casual pants, raised his upper body from the couch.
“What is it?”
The moment he asked, a cold sweat ran down his back. A suffocating tension gripped his heart tightly.
“We’re surrounded!”
The adjutant shouted.
“By who?”
Had someone attacked after seeing the Border Guard’s defeat? From where? Could it have been a setup by that bastard Count Molsen?
“The Border Guard regulars!”
The soldier’s eyes shook uncontrollably as he spoke.
He wasn’t thinking straight either.
But Olf didn’t have the presence of mind to confirm that.
“…What?”
Olf gaped in shock. Why were those bastards here? They fought just a day ago—and even let them retreat. Why were they here?
He stared at the adjutant, silently demanding an answer. The adjutant opened his mouth and spoke.
“What should we do?”
Drip.
Unconsciously, a drop of saliva fell from the corner of Olf’s mouth.
Everything had gone completely wrong.
Defeat. Shattered morale. Diminished numbers. Even the forces of nobles he was familiar with had been ground away. The sword given to him by Count Molsen had also been broken.
It was his own fault for misjudging the Border Guard’s strength.
Drip.
A second droplet of saliva fell from Olf’s mouth.
Neither the adjutant nor the messenger thought it was disgusting.
They too were in a state of panic.
