Chapter 278

‘Cowardly bastard, filthy bastard, may you be cursed, you son of a bitch!’

The Black Blade Bandit officer cursed Markus until he was spitting blood.

Granted, there was some misunderstanding. This whole matter had started with Sinar, with Encrid joining in to finish things in an instant.

But the more he dug, the more the only name that surfaced was that the Border Guard’s standing army was involved.

Then who could have ordered it? Who was behind it? One name kept coming up like an itch.

Markus.

A noble, with connections in the royal palace, and rumored to be aiming for the title of Grand Duke of the North.

“I’ll chew you to pieces, you bastard!”

Whether muttered inwardly or shouted aloud, the anger would not fade.

He felt wronged, furious, and on the verge of losing his mind.

He wanted to throw himself on the floor, thrash about, and scream. That was how much his temper was boiling.

Only after forcing himself to calm down—just barely—did the officer grind his teeth. But he couldn’t simply march over and kill Markus.

The Border Guard was the kind of place where any assassin sent there never returned.

Even attempts to kill that man Encrid had never succeeded.

Had they even managed to leave so much as a scratch?

He’d sent men armed with poison—so why had they all been wiped out without exception?

Was it because the enemy’s skill was extraordinary? The Black Blade Bandits had considered that.

The officer also thought so.

At least junior knight level.

Encrid’s feats had been exaggerated in some accounts, downplayed in others.

But none of them truly believed he had reached the level of a junior knight.

The idea that some man could swing a sword barehanded and one day suddenly awaken to using [Will] was beyond belief.

Such prodigies did appear occasionally—but if he had that kind of talent, why would it only now come to light?

If he’d been hiding away somewhere, maybe—but no.

His traces were all over.

A mercenary who had paid paltry krong to shabby instructors to learn the sword.

A man who sometimes hunted for a few coppers, or took odd jobs.

When there was no sword work, he even labored on city wall repairs.

That kind of man—how could anyone believe he had become a junior knight?

The Black Blade Bandits were being reasonable. It was the only way to think.

Besides, Count Molsen had done his part to tamper with information behind the scenes.

Because of that, they couldn’t gauge Encrid’s level accurately.

They weren’t underestimating him—

It was clear some late change had occurred in him.

But believing he had truly become something on par with a junior knight? No.

There had to be an accomplice.

And whose name sat at the top of that list?

Markus. That sly son of a bitch.

“This is war now!”

The officer shouted in the empty study.

It wasn’t just his idea.

His superiors—right up to the leader of the Black Blade Bandits—had given similar orders.

Gather all forces.

Seek help from the Cult.

Burn the Border Guard to the ground. (T/N: Oooooohhh, this arc is going to be wild!!! Border Guards vs Cult-Black Blade Bandits. Let’s goooooo!)

They weren’t lords, had no territory, yet they were a lawless bandit organization with both force and influence—and they would wield it.

They poured out their hoarded gold and leveraged their connections.

Those who had operated as part of the bandit gang gathered.

Some mercenaries joined—men who would stab their own parents for enough krong.

Thus, a force numbering over five hundred assembled on a small hill west of the Border Guard.

Could such a force scale the Border Guard’s walls?

Not easily—but the Black Blade Bandits’ specialty was not war, but intrigue.

They worked as they always had.

The rise of the bandit gang—ostensibly a territorial war caused by Markus encroaching on neighboring lands—had sparked more than a few incidents.

It was the beginning of civil war, giving many an excuse to move.

For Markus, within the Border Guard, it was wholly unexpected.

Just before the outbreak—

“How many villages? Send troops to take them all. From now on, we’re not the Border Guard’s standing army—we’re the Border Guard territory.”

“Who’s the lord?”

“The first lord is me.”

Markus confidently pointed to himself in answer to the captain’s question.

Then the lord of the neighboring territory—and the original owner of those villages—the pig, Baron Tarnin, declared a territorial war.

“Without the king’s leave, what is this? You’re full of greed and know no shame! Markus, beg for forgiveness at once! If you do not repent, I will sever your head and offer it to God myself!”

This was what he shouted after gathering his troops.

He hadn’t even tried to hide it, so Markus heard of it quickly.

“Looks like that pig’s been eating the wrong kind of herbs.”

Markus’s reply, murmured at his desk, left no doubt about his meaning.

It was civil war. But that didn’t mean fighting broke out immediately.

As most territorial wars went, Tarnin first sent messengers.

It usually started with a war of words, then moved reluctantly to fighting.

“But what’s this guy playing at?”

This time was a little different.

Tarnin had first gathered mercenaries and other so-called experts before picking a fight.

He acted as if ready to attack immediately—

Yet instead of charging, he dug in and simply held position.

Why? Who benefited from such a standoff? Who lost?

Markus was no fool. It was more advantageous to let Tarnin and his backers waste their resources than to strike now.

He analyzed Tarnin’s nature—

Specialty?

—Eating.

Strength?

—Thick hide that blades have trouble cutting.

Power of his territory?

—Next to nothing.

So what was Tarnin relying on?

—The Black Blade Bandits.

Markus weighed the sequence of events, checked the situation.

Then why act like this?

Assembling an army cost gold. You had to feed and house them.

Especially mercenaries—they had to be paid.

If not, some would happily turn and carve star-shaped holes in Tarnin’s belly.

‘So why?’

Even with his troops assembled, Tarnin seemed unwilling to attack.

He talked about training and other nonsense instead.

Markus chose to wait. He had no better move for the moment.

Yes, he had encroached on Tarnin’s land.

The plan had been to quietly seize a few villages, set up a pseudo-territory, and then get royal approval.

‘Feels like someone’s behind that pig.’

And whoever it was—

The scheme they played next hit hard.

Hard enough to smack Markus across the back of the head.

“…Huh.”

[Given that territorial war has worsened the unrest in the North, by order of the royal family’s steadfast friend and pillar, the House of Centerpole, to Markus—]

So began the letter.

Markus was a gambler—he knew how to seize the moment.

But the contents of the letter bound his hands and feet before the match had even begun. It was a scheme to keep him out of the decisive moment entirely, with no apparent way to evade it.

“Hah.”

Only hollow laughter came—he’d been utterly had.

—

“Had fun without me, huh?”

The moment he returned, Rem greeted him. Encrid thought, at least this guy never changes.

“It was an assignment.”

“Ah, but you had fun, right? And me? I’ve been stuck here, huh? Babysitting some beastkin someone abandoned, huh?”

A long-winded way of saying he wanted to spar immediately.

Off to the side, Dunbakel stood with both eyes blackened—looked like she’d been roughed up.

It was hard not to feel sorry for her. If he let it go, Rem would just keep beating on her for fun.

And Encrid, aside from a bit of fatigue, wasn’t hurt.

“Come on, then, you loud-mouthed barbarian.”

Encrid said with a joking tone, and Rem grinned.

“Let’s settle the score!”

With that nonsense, the spar began.

“Hasn’t changed a bit!”

Rem swung his axes in a crisscross, trying to project pressure. Said he’d learned it from watching a rapier fencer—hard to believe.

Could you really imitate something just by watching?

Of course, his execution was entirely different—though he wouldn’t know that.

Encrid refused the pressure, then let his sword do the talking.

‘Clang-clang-clang!’

Steel struck steel between them, golden sparks flying.

Teresa, unusually quiet, sat with legs together, waiting her turn. (T/N: I freaking love the whole team.)

This was routine.

She would spar next. She had devised several techniques, honing them with Audin, and was curious whether they’d work on Encrid.

Her heart pounded.

Without him around, things just hadn’t been as fun.

Training and building her body still left her feeling empty—like a landlord with an empty storehouse.

– “Why so down?”

Seeing her lackluster demeanor, Audin asked.

Teresa took a moment to reflect before asking,

– “Tell me, wandering Teresa says—what happens if the captain doesn’t come back?”

Audin laughed heartily.

– “He’ll be back.”

Audin usually spoke of all things in the name of God, with deep reflection rather than certainty—but on Encrid, he was strangely definite. No doubt.

The moment Encrid returned, Teresa’s heart raced.

Her face flushed.

And why not?

‘My techniques.’

A worthy opponent to test them on. The one who had drawn her from the Cult. The only one who could match her sword and shield.

Others could spar with her, but it wasn’t the same.

Encrid was different—and she didn’t need to know why.

What mattered was the process of fighting him. The act of raising her sword and shield before him.

For that, she could burn her life and fight to the death—cleaving any enemy who stood before him, so he could walk forward without looking back.

She would make him turn and face her.

With that resolve, Teresa knelt and prayed—

Not in the Cult’s manner, nor invoking God’s name, but it was prayer all the same.

“You asleep? Next up?”

Encrid, having been beaten by Rem, stood quickly and spoke. Teresa rose, setting her knee upright.

Shield up, she smiled.

“Wandering Teresa steps forward.”

It was an enjoyable spar—at least for Encrid.

Rem had been fun, Teresa charging in was fun,

And Dunbakel, insisting on dual-wielding swords, was also amusing.

“Still rough around the edges.”

“I know!”

She knew but insisted on using two blades anyway.

Watching her, Rem muttered, “Crazy woman, crazy woman—if you ever run into a high priest, kidnap them, everyone here needs treatment.”

Apparently she’d been inspired by him and decided to dual-wield.

He let it go—it wasn’t his place to interfere.

And so Encrid returned to normal routine.

“But why haven’t you improved?”

Rem asked, some dissatisfaction in his tone.

Had his skill stayed the same?

That could be—but was that why?

No.

Encrid had spent two months with plenty of time to think—

Climbing cliffs, riding, walking, running, entering villages.

The fights were short, the marches long.

Along the way, Sinar cracked elf jokes, Finn made trivial chatter, and sometimes Jaxson would say,

“Do whatever you want. Bottling it up will make you sick.”

‘Never bottled anything up, though.’

Encrid meant it—but maybe others saw it differently.

For all his ability, he didn’t cling to worldly rewards.

So what did he want?

Jaxson’s question had struck near the truth.

Encrid knew what he wanted, and he was walking the path toward it.

And with all that walking, his mind was sharper than ever.

He had refined his training method—

What he had, what he needed to grow, what he could gain through honing.

Before, he’d been busy absorbing and digesting whatever was around him—but no longer.

Two months of travel had solidified his training plan.

It was time to put it into action.

“Guess I’ll start helping out.”

And the first would be that stray cat—Jaxson.