Chapter 220
Count Molsen had three wives and six concubines.
For a noble in this era, that wasn’t considered a flaw.
He had produced many children under his name.
Combined, sons and daughters alike, he had more offspring than even the royal family.
And yet, none of them particularly pleased him. The world rarely unfolded as one desired.
“I’ll take care of it.”
One of his sons spoke up. From the coachman’s seat, the count looked at the son who had stepped inside.
In those eyes, he saw jealousy and anger.
Was it from getting knocked down? Or was it the fact that the man now named across the entire Penhanil continent had looked down on him? If that was what stirred his rage, it was understandable.
The name Encrid had already reached the kingdom’s capital.
Jealousy made sense.
But to show it so plainly—
‘He’s good at fighting, but…’
This son lacked the ability to read when to suppress his pride and when to act. That alone disqualified him.
At best, he could be used as a guard.
So much for raising sons the right way.
He’d already prepared other means to continue his lineage, so he had no lingering attachment to any of them.
That’s why he no longer sought to have more children.
‘If it were me…’
Instead of being jealous or resentful, he would’ve considered bringing that man in as an ally.
In fact, that’s exactly what he was doing now.
Still, there was one thing that nagged at him.
“You didn’t look him in the eyes, did you?”
He asked his son. The son blinked in confusion.
As if to say, What are you talking about? Eyes wide, bovine-like. Maybe that’s why he fought so well—like a stubborn ox.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul.
“That man…”
The count paused, thinking. Did he really see it? Yes—there was no doubt. That gaze, that presence couldn’t be mistaken.
“He wanted to fight.”
“Excuse me?”
“He looked like he wanted to fight me.”
His son’s expression twisted into disbelief—and then anger.
“How dare he!”
“Why? Is that not allowed?”
The count cut him off.
Even he had felt a flicker of competitive spirit. That gaze—clear, upright, straightforward—it had stirred something in him.
It made him want to see how skilled the man truly was.
Of course, he couldn’t actually fight him. That wouldn’t do.
You don’t give people what they want so easily.
That was one of life’s core lessons.
Either way, his visit had not been in vain.
‘He’s interesting.’
Too interesting to just leave alone.
So—how to bring him closer?
When someone owes you, they’re easy to manipulate. So how to create that debt?
“What about the beasts in the south, Father?”
The word Father made the count twitch internally. Still, he didn’t scold him. Sometimes, blood ties alone are enough to ensure loyalty.
This son was one of those cases.
‘Whose son was this again?’
Greta? Helen?
Either way, a loyal and steadfast child like this deserved a small reward for his mother.
That one gesture would ripple through the inner politics of his household—fueling the ongoing power struggle among his wives.
That was the intent. Let them squabble.
Everything that happened under his roof was within his control.
“Leave them be.”
Originally, his deployment had been to deal with the beast packs coming up from the south. Some were dealt with, others were left untouched.
Eventually, the Border Guard would be neck-deep in beast trouble.
‘Then they’ll come asking for help.’
In a few months, maybe a year.
“And those who move under the cover of night?”
At his question, the son bowed his head.
The Daggers of Gaor—a notorious assassin group feared across the continent.
Word had it some among them were operating within the Border Guard’s territory, and the son had just reached out and made contact.
Before the two could continue their discussion, the coachman called from outside.
“Someone is blocking the road ahead. How should we proceed?”
“Stop the carriage.”
If someone in the northern Pen-Hanil region failed to recognize the Count’s crest and blocked his path, he’d question their intelligence. If they did know and still blocked it, it meant they had business with him.
It was the latter.
A figure cloaked entirely in black stood in the way.
‘Bold bastard.’
The count thought, then cracked the door and called out,
“Who are you?”
“Daggers of Gaor.”
Came the short reply.
“You bastard!”
The son jumped out of the carriage and shouted. “Do you know who you’re speaking to, you insolent—” and so on.
The assassin simply listened in silence.
“Why have you come?”
The Count cut to the point. The assassin ignored the son and spoke calmly.
The son, incensed, drew his sword.
Clang!
“Let’s cut off an arm and talk afterward,” he declared.
He was known for his swordsmanship in his domain—but this was a member of the infamous Daggers of Gaor.
To stand here alone, facing them, showed impressive confidence.
“Enough.”
The Count halted him. The son’s eye twitched, but he stepped back.
“I want someone in the Border Guard taken care of.”
These were assassins. Speak to them like assassins.
This was half a test: Could the man survive even an assassin’s blade? Even if it came from the Daggers of Gaor?
Half of him wanted to recruit Encrid. The other half wanted him gone.
This request belonged to the latter.
“The name?”
“Encrid.”
“Denied.”
‘…What?’
Refused. Flat out. Without pause. Did this man know the name? Then again, Encrid’s name had been echoing loudly across the lands lately.
“You don’t have to kill him. Just rough him up a bit.”
“Denied.”
Another immediate refusal.
Not even a kill order—just a partial one—and still refused?
Weren’t these the people who’d do anything for the right pile of gold?
“Afraid you’ll fail?”
Even provoked, the assassin said nothing—only repeated one word.
“Denied.”
“Then just investigate him for now. Find out if he has family, who’s around him, what he owns, how he ended up where he is, what he wants to do. You understand?”
The man in full black—an assassin from the Daggers of Gaor—paused, then nodded.
“On the second day of each month, I’ll send someone. We’ll trade information for payment then.”
“Don’t overprice yourselves. You’re the kind who live off blood money.”
The count said flatly. He was not one to show emotion openly. His son took it as if the words were spoken for his sake.
To the assassin, however, it felt more like a silent push to do the job properly rather than a threat.
Without a word, the assassin vanished.
The count boarded the carriage once again.
“Father.”
“Hold your temper. Revealing emotions so easily does no good.”
He reprimanded his son like a monarch tutoring a future heir. And the carriage resumed its journey.
The man from the Daggers of Gaor watched them leave, then slowly removed his mask.
It had been a while since he’d fully covered himself like that. It felt stifling.
‘To think it felt this suffocating.’
He had grown too accustomed to relaxed living. In battlefields where your face was exposed, you had no choice but to fight honestly.
In Jaxson’s mind, that was a noble way to fight.
You slit throats from behind, yes—but when easier ways to kill existed, why go through all the effort?
Why risk getting noticed just to close in?
So, to him, it felt just. Almost… admirable.
‘Maybe not admirable.’
He’d seen his commander, and lunatics or zealots, fight firsthand. There was nothing noble about it.
Still, it wasn’t that he hated it.
He had his own battlefield.
“How was it?”
After walking a long way toward the city, someone joined him midway. A woman from the brothel. Personally, she was like a lover to him. Organizationally, she was a leader of a very skilled information network.
“Like a snake.”
He was referring to the aura he sensed from the man. The count reeked of cunning and deceit.
“Hmm, bad news,” she said.
“Did you find anything?”
Jaxson asked, and the woman nodded. The two walked together toward the city as they talked.
“It’s likely he’s connected.”
Being part of the Daggers of Gaor didn’t mean you accepted every request.
And it wasn’t like Jaxson could take a job right now.
But he had a personal motive for enlisting.
And this was a lead. He had nearly abandoned it—but now things had changed.
He had come here for revenge.
And this was a clue.
“He’s probably going to ask you to kill the company commander.”
“I refused.”
“You sure about that?”
The man in question was a noble nicknamed the Grand Duke of the North. His actual title was only a count, but that was due to the royal family’s caution. In reality, his power matched the nickname.
If that house attacked in earnest, even the Daggers of Gaor wouldn’t easily withstand them.
That’s what it meant to be a great noble ruling a domain.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Jaxson replied.
Hmm. The woman nodded inwardly. Well, that was just who he was.
He’d once said his commander was slowly going mad—but Jaxson wasn’t exactly sane himself.
“I’m off.”
Just outside the city, Jaxson stepped ahead. The woman called after him,
“Come by more often.”
No answer.
The Daggers of Gaor had taken on the mission. Passing along information might also help them uncover more in return.
Jaxson didn’t feel burdened by it.
Should he mention it to the commander? The thought crossed his mind—but there was no real need.
After all, what would he even say?
‘No family, obsessed with the sword, dreams of knighthood.’
Hm. Perfect. If he said that, the client would probably think it was a joke. But what could he do—someone like that actually existed.
Even if Encrid had gone from mercenary scum to soldier to company commander, from the outside, his dream still looked like a delusion.
But how did those close to him view it?
Even Markus seemed to believe in it now.
This city was full of lunatics.
Jaxson thought that, as he prepared to step into their world.
No longer as an assassin from the Daggers of Gaor, but as a sneaky alley cat, as a soldier defending the front lines, as a subordinate supporting his company commander.
If he left them alone, that insane barbarian would do something crazy again—so it was partly his job to rein him in. At least for as long as he stayed here, he planned to do his part.
—
“This is the Northern Duke’s position:
He wants a ducal title.
But the royal family refused.
And why? The count claims it’s because they’re trying to push him aside.
Why? Because they’re afraid he’ll seize the throne? Well then, let him take it! If he doesn’t have the power, he’ll lose it, cough it up, or give it away—Count Molsen argues that this is how the world works.
But the royal family stays silent.
They just say, ‘We’re following the laws. Everything we do is for Naurilia.’ If he wants the title of duke, let him earn it. That’s their stance.
Honestly? It’s a farce. Anyone who knows anything about politics knows the count has an eye on the throne.”
After Krys finished his long-winded speech, Encrid asked a simple question.
“Then why do the Border Guard nobles seem completely unaware?”
“Because they’re half-wits.”
Fair enough. Encrid nodded.
They were the kind who didn’t know a thing, who thought inherited titles were something to be in awe of.
They were the Border Guard nobles—barely worth being called nobles at all.
One had already been sent off to heaven or hell by Rem’s axe recently.
Officially, it was said he’d been killed by bandits, or that the Cursed Sword was responsible, but the sharper nobles suspected it might’ve been Markus pulling the strings.
Encrid didn’t care.
All he cared about was Count Molsen.
Over time, Encrid had built up his body through constant training and countless battles. With the [Isolation Technique], he had tempered his physique, developed an eye for reading opponents’ skill, and—thanks to Jaxson—awakened a new intuitive sense.
‘That son of his…’
He didn’t feel any urge to fight him.
But the count?
The moment Encrid saw him, something like competitive spirit flared up.
That body was like forged steel.
And those eyes—
‘A mage.’
It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a mage before.
Especially when the closest one to him was a panther who could turn into a human.
Rem knew, so of course Encrid knew too.
Esther didn’t seem to think it was much of a secret.
In fact, Encrid had realized it before Rem did.
When he brought it up, Esther had asked,
“Even when I bathe?”
She said it so casually.
Mages were seekers of secrets and walkers of mystical paths. Physical contact between sexes likely didn’t mean much to them. That’s why Encrid hadn’t thought much of it.
Though lately, Esther had stopped falling asleep in his arms.
She said, “I don’t need it as much anymore.”
Not something worth worrying over.
“What’re you doing?”
Rem asked beside him. Encrid had slipped into idle thoughts from boredom.
They were in the middle of company-wide drills. Encrid stood atop the platform, quietly using the [Isolation Technique].
At that moment, the group he’d sent running returned.
“You all back?”
“All back,” Rem replied with a smirk. The man was the type who grew stronger by tormenting others. A rare breed of genuinely malicious personality.
“Did everyone run?”
As Encrid looked over his troops, a thought crossed his mind.
‘Their stamina is terrible.’
All things begin with a strong heart.
So for seven days straight, they’d done nothing but run in full gear. It sounded simple, but for those doing it, it was hell.
Morning to lunch, then lunch until evening—
Just running.
Around the drill yard, through the city outskirts, and up the hills that dotted the landscape.
They ran until their lungs burst and every muscle screamed.
The worst off were the 1st Company.
“Our training is different,”
A few muttered, full of baseless pride—but they turned pale and joined the others in agony soon enough.
“We should be allowed to wear light armor too. This isn’t fair!”
Everyone was told to run with their gear. And for the heavy infantry? That meant full plate.
Hearing that, Rem excitedly dashed off.
He stopped right in front of the soldier who’d been acting all superior when training first began.
Encrid had warned him: don’t just hit people. Without just cause, it was abuse—not training.
They were here to make them tougher, not break them.
Granted, even ordering this level of training bordered on madness—but that was the commander’s responsibility.
Rem, as the drill instructor, was simply thrilled that the time to act had come.
“‘Unfair,’ huh? Then transfer to 2nd Company, you bastard! Weren’t you bragging about how your training was different? Where’s your precious 1st Company pride now?!”
Rem glared him down. One more word and it’d become physical.
The soldier quickly lowered his eyes.
There was no reasoning with this lunatic.
‘Hm, not bad.’
Encrid thought to himself, satisfied with how the training was going.
He was even starting to worry that maybe the intensity wasn’t high enough.
A delusion worthy of someone called the Madman Company Commander.
But then again, Encrid had been through far worse.
So to him, this level of training felt perfectly reasonable.
* * * * * * *
(T/N: I’m alive! 😂 Just dropping in with a quick update. Still not back to a regular upload schedule, but I’ll be uploading at least 5 chapters per series every week, in order based on the most recent series I picked up. No fixed days yet, but I’ll keep the bulk uploads coming as best as I can!)
