Chapter 264

“So, how was it?”

Edin Molsen’s father asked.

He didn’t even lift his head from his desk, speaking with only his lips. That forced the man who had been Edin Molsen’s escort to answer while staring at the top of the count’s head.

The escort stood straight and opened his mouth.

“He’s awakened [Will]. At least Junior Knight level.”

To awaken, to open, to reach, to realize, to achieve—

There were many ways people phrased gaining [Will], but the important point here was just one:

The man could use [Will].

Black hair and blue eyes. Someone tempting, yes, but not someone urgent enough to snatch immediately.

“[Will]?”

The quill that had been scribbling halted. The count lifted his head. A visible shift in expression crossed his face.

To the escort, this reaction was rare. For the count, it was cause for contemplation.

‘He’s the one the rumors were about, but he’s reached [Will]?’

That meant he had truly become a Junior Knight.

And actual Junior Knights were leagues apart from what people called “Junior Knight-level.”

It was ridiculous to even compare a half-baked swordsman to someone who could wield [Will].

Yet people still loved to throw around the phrase “Junior Knight-level.”

It only meant someone could hold their own against a Junior Knight—as long as they didn’t use [Will].

The count knew better than anyone how hollow that phrase was.

He set down his quill and sat back in his chair.

‘[Will]?’

He repeated the word in his head, not by intention but instinct.

This wasn’t something to overlook.

He had already suspected the man was far above the level of a mere squire.

What people referred to as “Junior Knight-level” was really just a well-trained squire.

Someone who’d honed their body and mind but hadn’t yet awakened [Will].

Some of those ended up living wildly and still awakened it. Others lived like ascetics and only then became Junior Knights.

Their common denominator? They were all based in some territory and renowned for their martial strength.

So even being a squire equated to being a fearsome swordsman.

Put like that, how absurd was the label “Junior Knight-level”?

But now the report wasn’t that he was at that level—it said he truly had awakened [Will].

The escort glanced at the count’s face. The man’s expression was unchanged, save for the shift in his eyes.

With a faint smile, the count said,

“Interesting.”

He scrapped most of the plans he had been quietly drafting in his head.

“What did you think of him?”

He asked for the escort’s judgment again. The man hesitated.

How much should he say?

This man’s thoughts were unreadable. He wasn’t someone you could trust.

‘A madman.’

Though he was a noble of Naurilia, he’d entered an alliance—an unofficial one—with Azpen’s Hurrier family.

The escort was here as proof of that.

Nominally a guard of the count’s house, a guest—but in truth, he was part of the Hurrier family.

A Junior Knight of Azpen.

All this had been twisted together by the higher-ups, and as someone with no political insight, it wasn’t his concern.

All he knew for sure was this:

This man was plotting something—and Azpen had accepted it.

‘Does he even have fatherly affection?’

It didn’t seem like it.

The evening sun stretched through the window and bathed the office in orange light.

The escort carefully chose his words.

“He is extremely difficult to deal with and has a strange influence on those around him.”

“You mean he draws people to his side?”

That wasn’t quite it. It was a bit different.

“Not quite. Rather…”

The escort paused, unsure how to phrase it.

“Even without trying, everyone around him seemed to enjoy being near him.”

He thought of the half-giant woman.

She called herself the wanderer Teresa, but anyone who couldn’t recognize her for what she was must have broken eyes.

She had originally been an enemy, affiliated elsewhere—and she’d even caused trouble. Yet where was she now? By whose side did she stay?

How could that be?

It made no logical sense.

And the others around him—what were they?

Lastly, the escort had noticed a change in Edin Molsen himself.

He had been about to bring that up when the count spoke first.

“You said the Black Blade is targeting him?”

The sunset touched the left side of the count’s face, and for a moment, the escort saw two faces—divided by the light.

Not a trace of concern or affection for his son could be found in either.

For a moment, he thought the words were wrong—that the Black Blade “was” targeting him instead of “is”—but he held his tongue.

“That’s what I heard.”

“I see. That’s quite amusing.”

“Then I’ll take my leave.”

Suddenly, the escort felt sick.

Every time he spoke with this man, the feeling returned.

How far could human malice grow?

How much could one sacrifice for ambition?

If someone offered to open the path of knighthood for him, how much could he give up?

‘Even family? Children?’

Would he sacrifice everything for ambition—or stop for the sake of humanity?

The man before him showed no signs of stopping. There was no love, no affection, no concern in that mind.

As the escort opened the door and stepped out, he saw a man standing guard.

Silver-haired, clad in black armor, helm pulled low.

The man gave a small nod. The escort responded with a tilt of his chin and disappeared into the corridor untouched by the sun.

The count’s black-helmed guard closed the door.

Thunk.

The count rested his chin on his hand as he stared at it.

His mouth itched. He pulled out a pipe and snapped his fingers.

With a ‘pop’, a flame rose from his hand, pushing back the sunset glow.

He lit his pipe and smiled.

Smoke filled his lungs, then escaped through his throat and curled around his lips.

The smoke blended with the sunset, glowing orange.

“The Black Blade bastards…”

This wouldn’t be fun.

If the man was really a Junior Knight and not just “Junior Knight-level.”

And if, as the report said, those around him were also no pushovers—

Then they would never get what they wanted.

‘Fine if they succeed, too.’

If the Black Blade hurt Encrid’s group, he could always weigh the scales afterward.

Still, he had a feeling that wouldn’t happen. A vague intuition—but one that rarely missed.

“It will be fun to watch, though.”

The count mused.

Nowhere in his mind did the name Edin Molsen appear.

—

The moment Encrid grabbed the wrist, the attacker tried to yank it away.

Naturally, it didn’t budge.

It was locked in place, like a statue. Veins popped up on the back of the hand—he was squeezing hard.

Even among the monsters surrounding him, Encrid’s physical strength didn’t fall short.

Crunch.

He pulled and twisted the wrist, snapping it at an unnatural angle.

No cry of pain came from the attacker.

The crowd was dense.

The market was half people, half goods.

Hardly anyone nearby noticed what was happening.

“You bastard, you stepped on my stand!”

A merchant shouted.

“There’s nowhere to walk, damn it!”

Maybe they needed to widen the streets.

They were already pouring krona into that—he could see signs of it.

Construction was underway to expand the main road.

At this rate, the whole territory would grow.

The hunchback with the broken wrist reached with his other hand.

Before the arm could fully extend, Encrid drove his right fist forward.

Krys couldn’t even see it—only heard a ‘whump’ followed by a ‘crack’.

Even Esther, nestled in Encrid’s arms, was surprised by how little the impact shook her.

‘He’s gotten even cleaner?’

She didn’t know what had changed in him—but instinctively, she felt it.

He shattered the hunchback’s jaw.

The attacker wore a thick robe. Encrid grabbed the hood and yanked it off.

The man had a hunched back and shaggy hair.

From breaking the wrist, throwing a punch, and removing the hood—all took just a few breaths.

But as soon as it ended—’whish’—a projectile flew in.

With the [Sixth Sense] active, Encrid spotted it immediately.

He swept his palm toward it.

The projectile slammed straight down into the ground.

A dart.

“Not bad.”

Encrid nudged it with his toe.

“…That’s what you say after flattening them like that?”

Krys responded, baffled. Not bad? After that?

Esther leapt out of Encrid’s arms. As a panther hit the ground, a few people gasped.

Some had seen the fallen hunchback, others had seen the knife in his hand.

And everyone saw Encrid and Krys.

Drifters may not know their faces—but no Border Guard local could miss them.

“A knife!”
“An attack!”
“Assassin!”

Whoa. Assassin, already?

The shouts only heightened the chaos.

Screams, panic, merchants protecting their goods—everything descended into madness.

Encrid expanded his senses.

Nothing.

That’s why he said they weren’t pushovers.

‘I didn’t sense them until the dagger was coming.’

And the one who threw the dart vanished into the crowd.

It was the mark of someone deeply trained in stealth.

If the crowd were smaller, he might’ve caught them. So he focused.

Where?

He asked with his mind, and used sight, hearing, smell, and touch—

And added the [Sixth Sense].

He pinpointed a direction.

Then—’whoosh’—something heavy flew in from behind. Slower than a dart, but heavy.

‘A sling stone?’

The moment he thought that, Encrid turned.

His honed reflexes caught the incoming object—a leather pouch.

A strange instinct took over. He drew his gladius, twisted his wrist to angle the flat side upward, and swung.

‘THWACK! BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM!’

The pouch exploded midair, spraying iron spikes everywhere.

‘Well, well.’

That was a new one.

‘Screams.’

A few spikes fell—but it was winter, and people were bundled up. Few were injured.

But the chaos worsened.

“To hell with it! Everyone inside the buildings! Anyone left outside will be treated as hostile!”

A patrolling soldier’s voice rang out.

Good call. In times like this, overwhelming force was best.

Encrid stayed still, calmly scanning the area.

Krys looked around, then decided this was safer and didn’t move either.

‘Ping!’

Two more darts flew in. One targeted Krys.

The dart drew a line in the air—

Encrid’s perception traced its arc and endpoint.

His focus spiked. A pinpoint focus.

Sharp senses, precision, and bold timing combined.

He moved like it was choreographed.

He dodged the dart aimed at him with a tilt of his head.

Then caught the other midair with his hand.

All in one motion, one breath.

If the assassin had seen it, their hair would’ve stood on end.

They might’ve pissed themselves and fled.

They probably ‘did’ see it.

Encrid dangled the dart with two fingers.

‘You bastards, huh?’

Targeting Krys?

Then another dart came—with a time gap.

This one aimed at Esther—but the panther had already dodged.

When it came to agile movement, how many humans could beat a beast?

The dart stabbed the ground where she had been.

‘Grrrrr.’

Esther growled, hostile.

Encrid kept his senses open.

These weren’t just assassins—they were seasoned killers.

‘They intentionally leaked bloodlust. Threw the spike pouch…’

And probably poisoned it too.

Flickers of bloodlust appeared, then vanished.

“Don’t push!”
“Watch your step!”
“You know who I am?!”
“Help!”
“Aaaaah!”
“Get out of the way!”

The market had turned into total chaos.