Chapter 282

“All troops assembled.”

Every soldier except those on patrol duty was gathered.

Encrid stood on a platform set up at one side of the parade ground.

He looked out at the gathered soldiers with a calm expression.

‘Will this even work?’

Doubt gnawed at him. Half of him thought it was a pointless stunt.

A speech, out of nowhere.

It was Krys’s request.

Near the end of the strategy meeting, Krys had asked:

“What does a group in crisis, a force facing danger, need most?”

Then he answered himself.

“Simple. Right now, what our domain needs is a focal point.”

He’d stretched out an arm as he said it. The gesture was like an actor on stage, but it fit the moment.

A motion that drew all eyes.

Encrid’s gaze had shifted to the head of the table in the war council.

There sat the weary commander, shadows deep under his eyes.

“Captain?”

One of the lieutenants had muttered. Even as he said it, his tone was full of doubt.

“Yes, I’m sorry to Captain Graham, but right now, no one is more renowned than the Madman Company Captain. And some only remain in this domain because of Captain Encrid. Not all of them swore to fight as allies, did they?”

Krys hadn’t humiliated him. He’d gone straight to the point, sparing Graham further embarrassment.

And Krys had been right.

Markus had poured gold into recruiting mercenaries, folding many into the army—but not all.

Some still stood half in, half out.

If things went bad, they could flee. Or worse, join the enemy.

How many swordsmen lived like bats?

“And there’s the problem of morale.”

Krys lifted his index finger beside his face.

Rumors spread by the cultists and the Black Blade Bandits.

That Azpen would attack any moment, that Markus was plotting rebellion and would be beheaded, that cultists would drive monsters in by tonight.

The militia swung clubs to silence such talk.

Would that work?

‘No.’

Encrid knew it too.

You can’t silence words with blows.

You can’t stop mouths with hands.

So how?

Krys folded his finger into a fist and chopped it down.

“Rumors are stopped with actions that outshine them.”

Hence, the need for a focal point.

Call it by the lofty names from old tales, history, or myth: a hero.

In the last battle, at least to those who had fought at his side, Encrid had seemed like one.

The man once mocked as useless was now the Independent Platoon Captain, a symbol of power.

It had been like something out of a heroic epic.

Some musically inclined soldiers had even composed songs. They weren’t worth listening to, though.

“Ah, true enough.”

Benzense blurted before quickly averting his gaze, wary of the captain’s eyes.

It wasn’t something to say before Graham.

But Graham agreed in his heart.

More than once he’d wondered—why not just hand the captaincy over to that madman?

Was it because he lacked ambition?

No. That wasn’t it.

‘It’s just… in times like this…’

A lunatic like that was exactly what they needed.

Above all, Encrid could be trusted. Graham could hand him both captaincy and command of the domain.

No lofty reason. Just that the mad bastard inspired the wish that he might succeed.

Enough that even surrendering his own post felt possible.

It was a fleeting thought.

“Proceed.”

The fatigue in Graham’s face eased slightly.

The words had brought a measure of relief.

And mercifully, the usual noble chatterboxes were gone.

That too lightened the burden.

“Will this be alright?”

Palto voiced a token objection, but nothing more.

He too thought something needed to be done.

Whether it worked or not was another matter.

And so Encrid found himself atop the platform.

“Just tell them to fight hard. That’s enough.”

Krys had said before he climbed up. Encrid had nodded.

“What we need now is to block infiltrators as much as possible and show the outside that we’re still strong. For that, the soldiers need something to believe in. Captain, just rest for now, then clap and smile when the speech ends. Leave the rest to us.”

It was like a stage play. Calculated, morale-raising theater to shatter enemy schemes.

Encrid had agreed.

So here he stood.

Among the murmuring soldiers, he saw veterans. Some familiar faces, some not.

Snow hadn’t fallen, but the sky was still dark.

For a moment, sunlight pierced the clouds.

Encrid spoke.

“Do we look like we’ll lose?”

No one answered. They only stared.

There were too many gathered—his voice wouldn’t carry far.

Esther, in human form behind him, gestured.

A spell to spread his voice wide.

Encrid thought of Krang.

The impression the man had left had been unforgettable.

Not just listening well, but commanding all around him.

Thump.

His heart pounded, heat boiling up from deep in his gut.

“I don’t think we’ll lose.”

Simple, clear words rang out.

And full of conviction.

How could he say it like that?

They wondered, just as they always did about him.

How could he endure such punishing training every day?

How could he be the way he was?

“We won’t lose. Guard the Border.”

At his third line, a soldier shouted:

“How do you endure it? How do you train like that?”

It was one of the new recruits, once a petty thief, now in the Gilpin Guild. He’d seen Encrid fight and joined the army.

Encrid had never thought himself a good speaker.

So he spoke from the heart. And the question was welcome. It let his true thoughts slip out.

“The pain that tries to kill me only makes me stronger.”

What did the words mean, exactly? Who cared.

Silence fell as soldiers mulled it over.

Sunlight pierced the clouds, casting rays like a holy glow.

Those touched by it felt a gentle warmth.

The quiet lingered—until a shout rose.

“Give me pain too!”

What nonsense was that?

Encrid gazed down impassively. And that expression, blank and steady, gave the soldiers comfort and confidence.

“I’ll endure pain!”

Another shouted.

“I can too!”

Another.

“The pain that tries to kill me—”

“Only makes me stronger!”

A strange chant was born.

But fortunately, it was exactly as Krys had hoped.

Morale surged, visible as flame.

Beside him, Rem blinked.

“Wasn’t it ‘what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger’? Think I’ve heard it somewhere.”

Right. He’d misspoken.

But he’d said it that way because he knew death itself forged strength.

“As long as it worked.”

Palto muttered.

The soldiers’ roars and cries were no longer yesterday’s.

On the verge of desertion thanks to rumors and schemes, they now burned with zeal.

Pain only made them stronger.

Pain near enough to kill only made them stronger.

In truth, pain that killed left you dead, but that hardly mattered.

The soldiers were swept up.

Training had ground them hard already.

And they had seen themselves change.

Some knew Encrid, some knew the Madman Company, others had only heard.

But all had heard of his deeds.

So his words carried weight.

In the pause before another roar, Encrid thought of Krys’s warning.

“You can’t block every infiltrator. Just as many as you can.”

Even Encrid couldn’t root them all out.

But he could overwhelm them.

It was an impulse.

Amid the cheers, his voice rang out, loud and clear.

“My name is Encrid! Captain of the Madman Company! Tonight, I’m taking the enemy commander’s head! Get ready!”

Madness incarnate.

Rem muttered behind him.

“Tonight?”

The cheers shook the platform. The ground thrummed beneath. Jaxson heard and weighed it, then answered.

He too had sensed the unrest among them.

“No. He’s not going. Idiot barbarian.”

He understood at once.

Rem ignored him.

“Let’s just leave this bastard behind. He’s useless anyway, right?”

Encrid ignored it, drawing his sword.

Shhhhing!

A soft blue glow split the sunlight as it rose.

“Back to your posts!”

“Wooooaaaaaaahhh!”

The cheers grew.

“Pain!”

“Give us pain!”

“Ooooh, pain!”

The chant swelled.

Graham wasn’t sure if this was right, but the results spoke.

Morale had soared higher than expected.

Sometimes Encrid didn’t seem to grasp his own place.

But it was natural.

Inside the Border Guards, he was twice the madman, twice the monster outsiders saw.

And when such a madman, such a monster, declared he would fight at their head?

How could they not go wild?

Exactly as Krys had planned.

Graham didn’t know Krys’s true intentions, nor did he care.

What mattered was the now.

Morale was high. The men shouted, raving with fire.

Now was the time for passion, not calm.

The veterans could handle the calm when needed.

Graham bellowed:

“To your ranks!”

The parade ground erupted into movement as the units fell into formation.

Thus began the day-and-night rotations.

—

Gilpin shot a wary glance at Frok.

If things went wrong, he’d be the one beaten or killed.

“It’s fine. The deal’s done. He’s guild now.”

Somehow, the real guildmaster Krys had taken Frok in.

Was that really okay?

Hadn’t Frok twice stormed the guild house?

Still, orders were orders. And when had following Krys ever gone wrong? Never.

He’d dug escape tunnels when told.

He’d accepted Frok when told.

So he obeyed.

“This way.”

Frok Maelrun, on the other hand, showed no wariness.

“I’m hungry.”

“Here.”

Out of prison, Maelrun tore into worm stew, staring at a man whose scalp had been flayed.

Chewing larvae filled him with happiness.

Fruit, human food—none compared to worm stew.

Nutritious, delicious.

Three days of feasting passed before Gilpin cautiously asked:

“Would you watch the comings and goings?”

“Sure.”

Maelrun rose at once.

He liked Krys’s terms.

Especially the lack of binding oaths.

‘Promshell forced a pact.’

Krys had done the opposite.

“Eat what you want, do what you want. Just stay in the domain.”

“Why?”

“What do you want most? I’ll let you pursue it as much as you like.”

Maelrun didn’t answer quickly.

Frok lived by desire. Krys was sharp enough to read it.

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you tell me, you can walk free. I’ll open the cell myself.”

By stepping back first, he drew out Maelrun’s answer.

“My desire is accomplishment. The moment of victory.”

Krys understood instantly. He longed for triumph, not the battle itself.

Many craved results over effort. Why not a Frok?

“Then plenty of easy prey will do.”

“Sparring won’t satisfy me.”

His tongue flicked in distaste.

He wanted real combat, the rush of victory.

“All the better. Plenty of such foes wander into the Border Guards. And if you cause too much trouble, just say the word—we have people for that.”

Like Rem. Or Rem. Or, yes, Rem.

Others with true skill would be Encrid’s concern.

And still mercenaries and swordsmen trickled into town, drawn by Encrid’s fame.

‘A sieve, in a way.’

If Frok crushed half of them, that was fine.

“So I can roam the domain?”

“Find those hiding their strength and beat them. All the better, right?”

Raw combat was all about the opponent.

Those who looked ready to fight for real.

The thought alone thrilled him.

His skin oozed slick oil.

“And no oath?”

“None.”

Krys smiled. What did an oath matter?

Frok had them only to restrain their urges.

But if desire ruled them, no oath was needed. Maelrun was naïve.

And so he roamed, now a guild member.

Meanwhile, Gilpin sensed resistance brewing in the alleys.

A few new faces were talking of starting their own guild.

And they had a swordsman to front it.

A man with two thick scars down his face.

He carried an iron mace that would do more than sting.

His skill was no trifle.

But a Junior Knight was still rare—he was no more than a former frontier guard at best.

No match for a Frok.

“Oh, you’ll fight?”

Maelrun grinned. His foe’s skill looked just right. Enough to toy with, then crush.

“Why’s a Frok here?”

The man’s eyes darted.

“Does it matter?”

Maelrun replied, raising his Loop Sword.

Caught off guard, the man faltered. The outcome was never in doubt.

—

“Failure?”

The Wolf Bishop of the cult paused mid-bite. Meat splattered onto the table.

“Yes. The group that went to seize the back alleys hasn’t reported back.”

“Send more.”

The bishop thought the situation sour, but also thought it wasn’t his move to make first.

‘Are they just going to sit and wait?’

The one who started the game should draw the first blade.

And there was word that an assassination squad aimed for the commander that very night.

Would he sit idle and take it?

“Let them try.”

It would be fun to mount their heads on spikes and charge.

The Wolf Bishop chuckled darkly.

That night, no assassins came.

But the next morning, the Border Guards marched out of the walls.

Toward the camp of the Black Blade Bandits.