Chapter 254

People across the continent often said this about Easterners:

“They’re tough, stubborn, and incredibly tenacious.”

Hans was one of those Easterners.

And among such Easterners, the ones who stayed in Martai basically carried this mindset:

‘Let’s see just how good you really are.’

They stayed because they bore a grudge against the current lord.

Hans was no exception.

“They stopped a whole colony? Bullshit. This is rigged.”

Hans, well-versed in dice games, came to his own conclusion.

If a dice game is rigged, it’s just a game where the same guy always wins, right?

In the past, whenever Martai was in danger, they’d request help from the Eastern Mercenary King.

But after losing a battle, the lord died. A new commander took over, and the land was absorbed into the Border Guard’s territory.

Then, a crisis broke out—and apparently a handful of soldiers from the Border Guard came and saved the day.

‘What a load of crap.’

To Hans, the whole thing reeked of dog shit.

If just a few men could drive off the monsters, how dangerous could they have been in the first place?

Unlike the soldiers who had stood on the battlefield, Hans had become a local thug and never even saw Encrid fight.

He’d been getting drunk and sleeping through it all. The danger to the territory and to himself—he treated as separate.

Two factions had quietly formed.

The alliance between Easterners and continentals helped spread misinformation and confusion.

Some knew the truth, of course—but Hans only heard what he wanted to hear.

He was a textbook fool.

His only talent was brawling. He made a living lending out his fists for a few silver coins.

‘I could’ve taken care of a few ghouls myself.’

Man-faced dogs? Just mutts with human heads, right?

One good stab with a spear would do the job.

To get beaten by mutts—what kind of Easterner would allow that?

True Easterners were known for slicing lions in half with a single sword.

The Mercenary King had done just that.

At age eighteen, with nothing but a sword, he killed a lion.

One that had eaten human flesh, killed dozens.

It was the first tale of how the Mercenary King proved himself on the Eastern plains.

“They must’ve used some kind of relic or pulled a trick.”

A companion said, nudging Hans in the ribs, egging him on. He handed Hans some wine. Hans took a sip.

It was sweet—like it had honey mixed in.

Not strong, but maybe it hit harder because of how worked up he was. A moment of dizziness passed quickly.

Hans, not wanting to seem tipsy, clenched his butt and acted sober.

“Tastes weak, but good.”

“Fresh shipment. Not bad, right?”

The companion didn’t seem to notice Hans wavering. Just smiled. Hans nodded vigorously. His movements were getting exaggerated—but he didn’t notice.

Then came the offhand remarks.

“Looked like a total idiot in person. Good-looking face and nothing else.”

Women supposedly fell for that face alone.

They even called him the Enchanting Squad Leader or something.

“What kind of bullshit is that?”

“You know Lenny, right? Looks like she fell for that enchanting bastard too.”

Lenny, the tavern owner’s daughter, was the one Hans had his eye on.

His stomach boiled.

But people around him were cheering like heroes had returned.

The mood made it hard to voice his complaints. So he held it in.

And when things had quieted down—

He heard that the “enchanting bastard” and his crew were at Lenny’s tavern.

“Bet he’s nothing in a real fight. But you, Hans, you might just—”

His companion handed him more wine. After chugging it down, Hans felt an unfamiliar surge of confidence.

That sweet, burning liquid hit his stomach, and something hot rose from below.

‘I’m gonna beat that bastard.’

When else would he show the might of an Easterner?

Hans entered the tavern with that mindset, glaring at the man.

And sure enough, he really did have a face like an idiot.

He looked more like a noblewoman’s bed servant than a war hero.

Hans also saw Lenny—her eyes fixed on the red-haired man with half-lidded eyes and a firm mouth.

What the hell was that face?

Fuck.

How was he supposed to put up with this?

Hans was a known troublemaker. Rarely lost a fight.

He stood up.

Scrape. Thud!

His chair scraped back and toppled over as he rose with force.

In the tavern were the Enchanting Bastard’s crew, Lenny, and a few townsfolk.

Some of them scowled.

What the hell was that thug about to pull?

—

To Encrid, it was all quite novel.

‘This is definitely someone picking a fight.’

He looked at Rem.

Rem blinked. He also looked puzzled.

Rem glanced at the rest of the group.

Audin. Dunbakel. Teresa.

Just these three were enough to make anyone think twice.

And then there was himself.

Not that he was bragging, but it was rare to meet someone in the territory bold enough to pick a fight with him.

Encrid’s face, sure, was on the delicate side.

Maybe that made him look easy to mess with.

But there had just been a battle.

If anyone saw that—or if word had spread—

‘And yet he’s picking a fight?’

What is this? Who is this idiot?

Encrid glanced at Rem again and scanned the man.

His senses in full swing, he analyzed him.

Some signs of physical activity. Average muscle development. Hand position. How he stepped. The way he stood up and kicked the chair.

Everything.

Then, he subtly shifted his stance. Left hand forward, right foot back.

Anyone with eyes could tell what that posture meant.

But the man showed not the slightest sign of recognition.

None. Zero.

“Hey, don’t you think you’re strutting around a little too much in someone else’s territory?”

That’s what he said.

“Should I kill him?”

Dunbakel asked.

That’s when Encrid remembered what the lord had told him.

To take it easy.

“I’ll do it.”

Encrid stood up as he spoke. No one else was interested. The man’s eyes reddened further. No—now they were bloodshot.

Not that it mattered.

“You bastard!”

The enraged man charged.

Encrid sidestepped, dodged the punch, shoved his forearm into the man’s arm, and tapped his thigh with his foot.

All in one smooth motion.

Effortless, graceful.

Rem and the others’ eyes sparkled.

An adaptation of the [Fluid Sword Technique].

Executed with his body instead of a sword. A technique he’d been obsessing over lately.

Encrid redirected the man straight into the tavern table.

But instead of letting it happen, he grabbed him by the collar and yanked him upright.

The man had only thrown one punch—and now he had no idea what had just happened.

Encrid shoved him.

Hans staggered, then stood again.

What the hell was this?

His rage only grew.

Unable to hold back, Hans reached for the knife at his belt.

“If you draw that, you’re dead. That’s the point of no return.”

Rem said, still chewing on his rusk. His mouth coated in sugar wasn’t exactly intimidating.

Hans didn’t hear it. Unless he stabbed that bastard in the gut, he couldn’t live with himself.

At this point, any rational thought was gone.

He should’ve either dropped to his knees or run.

But he didn’t.

He had to kill them all. He couldn’t live under the same sky as this bastard.

His fury shut off his brain.

It wasn’t natural.

Encrid noticed something odd in his expression.

Was this guy drugged?

He considered breaking something.

*Smack!*

A sharp sound rang out as the man, hand still on his knife, collapsed forward with his eyes rolled back.

Behind him, Jaxson caught him, laid him down, flipped his eyelids, and sniffed his breath.

“…What the hell are you doing? Got a thing for sniffing guys?”

Rem asked.

Jaxson ignored him and addressed Encrid.

“Someone drugged him.”

Drugs?

He explained further—it was a compound that impaired judgment and induced a hypnotic state.

He spoke like an expert.

And his diagnosis was spot on.

*Clap clap clap.*

Someone clapped.

“Well, well. To recognize that…”

A man approached, a leather canteen at his waist, two knives on his right hip, and a short sword on a belt to the left.

As he walked, the sheathed sword bounced against his thigh.

Even his gait gave him away—this one was competent.

Far more so than the guy before.

Encrid stared wordlessly. What now?

Despite no one responding, the man didn’t seem awkward. He kept smiling as he walked up.

He had a rat-like face.

“Greetings.”

No one answered. Even Rem, who usually couldn’t stand silence, only folded his arms and stared.

His mouth was still dusted with sugar, but one wrong move and he looked ready to hurl either his unbalanced flame axe or the glaive he took from the centaur leader.

Encrid’s senses told him Rem was ready.

This guy would die if they let it be.

“Who are you?”

Jaxson asked.

“Ah, how should I introduce myself…”

The man made a show of placing a hand over his chest, then dropping it theatrically.

Rem considered just killing him.

“Wait.”

Encrid said. The only one who didn’t understand that was the target.

He just smiled and said,

“I’m from the Black Blade.”

A bandit group.

Encrid’s hands relaxed. He’d never had a good conversation with them.

The man waved his hands.

“I’m not here to fight. Just here to talk.”

There were tavern workers and a few customers still around.

The man didn’t care.

“Would you consider switching sides?”

He smiled and asked. Encrid mulled it over and responded.

“So you’re saying you want to die?”

“I came here with good intentions, really. You know, the Black Blade—well, we don’t really believe in giving up. What you saw just now—that was just a taste.”

Drugging and hypnotizing that idiot was just a “taste.”

“This is a great opportunity. Please reconsider.”

The man was serious. So was Encrid.

“So you do want to die?”

“Pfft.”

Rem chuckled.

He knew exactly where this was going.

Encrid’s phrasing, the way he talked—he could already guess the next line.

“The Black Blade won’t stop. I’m just a messenger. And Dunbakel—you owe us a debt, don’t you? Think you can just walk away from that?”

He tilted his head toward Dunbakel.

She had once worked as a mercenary for the Black Blade. Took jobs, signed contracts, got paid.

But it meant nothing now.

Since then, she had wandered, looking to die.

Could that really be called a debt?

“Yeah.”

Dunbakel nodded.

The messenger flinched for the first time.

‘This lunatic’s even crazier than before.’

He thought.

“Sigh. You’re making this difficult. Let me say this again—it’s a great offer. We’ll let the Dunbakel issue slide. We can give you anything you want. Like, say, a spot in a knight order—if that’s your dream.”

He was talking about Encrid’s goal.

So they’d done their research.

‘What’ll it be? Still going to say no?’

He asked with his eyes.

Encrid responded calmly.

“So you want to die or not? Why won’t you answer the question?”

Pfft.

Rem laughed again.

Just in time for the messenger’s face to change.

‘These bastards… do they really need a lesson?’

He signaled with his fingers. Subtle.

Time for the assassins on the roof to make their move.

Silence.

Hm? The man signaled again. Then something fell from the roof.

“Eeek!”

A waitress screamed.

*Thud! Thud!*

Two corpses.

With holes in their throats. Beside them stood the red-haired man.

“That seems to be the end of your little stunt.”

What the hell now?

Everyone here could fight—but since when could they spot elite assassins so easily?

The messenger’s face contorted further.

“If you kill me, the Black Bl—”

*Whoosh. Thud! Boom. Slam!*

“Aaaahhh!”

He reached for a smoke bomb at his waist.

Rem, without a word, threw his axe.

His right hand barely registered. Encrid’s enhanced senses caught it all.

The flame axe—unbalanced but deadly—flew with no flame this time.

It embedded in the messenger’s head. The force lifted him off his feet and sent him flying.

He slammed against the tavern wall, then crumpled to the floor.

That was it.

The Black Blade’s messenger was dead.

The waitress screamed again. Jaxson calmly rifled through the body.

Folded papers, a leather pouch, smoke bombs, poison, knives.

One paper had strange powder inside.

Probably the drug.

“Don’t worry. Call the barracks, they’ll clean it up.”

Encrid spoke where he stood.

Just a fly interrupting their meal.

It had caused a scene—but nothing serious.

He was only impressed by Rem’s throw and Jaxson’s reflexes.

“Well now, the Enchanter’s even got bandit gangs moving. Brother.”

Audin quipped. The group headed out.

Whether the Black Blade played games or not—they were going to see the dwarf.

That had been the goal all along.

(T/N: Fck. That was satisfying. )

* * *

The dwarf was eating wine, cheese, and bread beside a forge.

Clang! Clang!

Unbothered by heat or the sound of metal, she dipped her finger in melted cheese and licked it.

Word had already spread across the territory. Just by browsing the market, Encrid’s deeds had made the rounds.

The dwarf looked at them and said,

“You guys fight pretty well, huh?”

Bold tone. Encrid looked at her.

How old was she?

As a non-human, her age likely didn’t match her looks. She looked about fifteen—a small girl.

But not just any girl. Her neck was probably thicker than his.

Her features were neat and surprisingly cute.

Krys wasn’t wrong when he said she was pretty.

Though by conventional standards, maybe a little questionable.

“You think that’s pretty?”

Rem scoffed. The dwarf muttered with her mouth full.

“I can hear you, gray-head.”

Bold with her words, too.

Rem stayed Rem.

The barbarian grinned and asked Encrid,

“Want a stuffed dwarf? I think I just picked one up.”