Chapter 305

When Encrid asked what kind of meat melted so tenderly in his mouth—

“Eel.”

Not snake, but a long-bodied freshwater fish.

The woman soldier peeled the skin with a small knife as she answered.

Everyone moved fast. Their hands were practiced and coordinated.

“When we get back to the city, I’m thinking of bringing fish from the river to sell. What do you think?”

A soldier who’d been applying sauce asked. Encrid quietly gave him a thumbs-up.

As he did, he imagined the trade route between the river and here.

With proper roadwork, it’d take two days by wagon.

And if they could get a [Spell Object] that emitted cold even in the summer, freshness wouldn’t be an issue.

If artifacts were relics, then [Spell Objects] were magical tools made and sold by mage guilds.

Among them were tools that maintained a cool temperature.

That’s how people in large cities ate shaved ice in the dead of summer.

Of course, they were prohibitively expensive, so you’d rarely see one in a remote place like the Border Guards.

But with more developed trade, who knows?

He’d already heard that even silk came through these parts.

If not for the war, this could’ve grown bigger—but that couldn’t be helped.

“I’ve never tasted anything like this.”

Encrid spoke with genuine sincerity.

Sauce clung to the corner of his lips, but it didn’t dull the sentiment. If anything, it amplified it.

The soldier basting the eel smiled broadly. His features weren’t particularly pleasant, but the smile carried sincerity.

There was pure joy in watching someone enjoy his food.

“You think it’ll sell well?”

“Definitely.”

“Even if you’re just saying that, I appreciate it.”

“Hey, take me with you when you start that business.”

Another soldier manning the grill chimed in. His face was smudged with soot—but it looked natural on him.

Neither of them looked very old.

“Helma! You done grilling?”

A few soldiers approached, shouting. The woman soldier who’d been staring at Encrid—her name was Helma.

“Yeah. Did you catch anything?”

She replied without turning her head.

From what he heard, they’d cleared a path to the Pen-Hanil River, and whenever they were bored, they’d head there to fish.

One of the soldiers dropped a thick leather pouch.

As it hit the cold ground, thin shards of ice scattered.

“What’s in it?”

“Crayfish.”

When they untied the pouch, crustaceans with claws spilled out.

The soldier in charge of seasoning licked his lips and said,

“Those are great just grilled.”

Encrid mingled with the soldiers, eating and enjoying as if he’d always been part of the group.

“Want a drink?”

“Absolutely.”

Helma offered him some whiskey with a pungent scent.

“Not good liquor, but not bad either, right?”

In the cold weather, it was just right for warming up the body.

The soldier with a knack for cooking grilled the crayfish, split their heads, and spread the innards over the meat like sauce.

“This’ll drive you crazy, trust me.”

He tasted it.

It nearly drove him mad. There was no fishy smell, just rich umami that enveloped his tongue and slapped his brain.

A mild sweetness danced across his palate, overwhelming in the best way.

“You have to open a restaurant.”

Encrid recommended it. Twice.

Next came trout. The innards had already been removed by the river, so all that was left was seasoning it with salt and pepper before grilling. It was exquisite too.

“So, which unit are you from?”

This came from another woman soldier, not Helma.

There were a fair number of women among the troops—that was expected.

Naurilia actively encouraged female enlistment.

Daughters of serfs, if they wanted to change their lives, were told to join the army.

Thus came the [Female Conscription System].

Following the [Ranked Soldier System] and [Mercenary Conscription System], it was Naurilia’s third military reform.

It worked well—female soldiers were now common.

“Reinforcements.”

“From the Border Guards?”

“Yeah.”

“So, is it true? That your commander’s ridiculously handsome? That rumor’s everywhere. Is he even better-looking than you?”

Encrid currently had a beard—not by choice, just from lack of time to shave. It looked a bit scruffy, but not enough to hide his looks completely.

Helma kept sneaking glances, after all.

“Nah, I’m better.”

He brushed it off with a joke.

A few soldiers couldn’t hold back their laughter.

Some looked at him with jealousy.

Others liked his easygoing nature.

“Tone it down, will you?”

Some muttered. A natural blend of envy and caution.

“Sure.”

Encrid accepted it calmly.

What good would a fight do?

If it were Rem, he’d have cracked heads by now—but Encrid wasn’t Rem.

After eating and drinking his fill, he returned to the barracks.

There, Esther was waiting quietly.

There was a rumor going around that a few soldiers had fallen for her on sight.

Her silky black hair and thick black fur coat made her a mesmerizing figure—on par with Sinar, enough to draw attention from every soldier nearby.

Maybe that’s why she never went outside?

Probably not. Esther never cared much for her surroundings in the first place.

The mage looked at Encrid and spoke.

Her voice was flat and expressionless.

“I need to step out.”

“All right.”

Encrid had no reason to stop her.

And just like that, she vanished.

By dawn the next morning, Krys—with bloodshot eyes—asked,

“Don’t you think spells or magic might be useful right now?”

He meant: why did you just let her go? Especially when she’s in human form—surely she could help?

Encrid had thought the same thing.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If she could help, she would’ve done something already.”

Krys would’ve normally caught on to this too.

Esther had been in human form for a long time.

If she could use magic, she would’ve.

But she didn’t. That meant there was a reason.

Encrid knew that—so he let her go. He figured she had something she needed to do.

He also didn’t think she was urgently needed.

If he forced her to help when she didn’t want to, it might do more harm than good.

It wasn’t logical—it was intuition.

And Encrid trusted his gut.

“Why do you only get smart at times like this?”

Krys grumbled. But that was his way of acknowledging it.

After that, Encrid began his usual routine: warming up and training.

He used the [Isolation Technique], refining each muscle one by one—tightening, stretching, and straining them before moving into sword swings.

He had recovered Lykanos’ sword after killing him.

Now, there were two swords at his left hip.

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

Sinar, who’d come to watch since early morning, asked.

“You get used to it. And it’s lighter than expected.”

“Really?”

“Want a quick spar?”

“Not a bad idea.”

Tap.

Sinar’s [Leaf Blade] was flexible, smooth, and fast.

She bounced forward as if skipping and swung with a lightness that was difficult to deflect.

“Were you preparing for my style?”

“Quick, aren’t you, fiancé?”

Every time he tried to deflect, she’d already slipped past.

Encrid switched his stance. A heavy sword style. Wide, forceful swings, weighted with power—and now with speed.

Not quite the five-strikes-in-a-step Ragna showed, but—

He could swing twice in one step.

It was the result of observing, mimicking, and refining. Not perfect, but close.

“Good.”

Sinar admired it. Her [Leaf Blade] changed too—shifting from rapid strikes to controlled, parrying flows.

She was unpredictable. The elf’s sword was sharp yet graceful.

Encrid memorized it all.

Later, when he reviewed and reflected, he’d gain something from it.

There was value in it.

His right arm hadn’t fully healed, but it wasn’t a life-or-death duel.

Neither of them was too serious.

After a while, as they caught their breath, Sinar wiped sweat from her brow and asked:

“Do you know that sword’s name?”

“It has one?”

He was holding the sword that Lykanos had used.

Encrid looked over it.

From the hilt to the blade tip, the shape resembled a piercing spike.

The blade was silver, and the grip was coarse but not uncomfortable.

Even without leather wrapping, it fit his hand like it was made for light, agile combat.

It was clearly no ordinary sword.

There were structured runes carved near the hilt.

Sinar calmly explained.

“It’s a blade made by the elves. Its name is [Ember].”

“Is it famous?”

“In its own way.”

He already suspected it wasn’t just some random sword.

It was both sturdy and light.

That meant it wasn’t made of regular metal.

[Ember] was forged by a famed elven craftsman.

Elven swords were categorized into [Knights] and [Needles]—this was one of the finest [Needles].

A named weapon—meaning the maker was confident in it.

It had supposedly gone missing ten years ago—and here it was.

Light, durable, and ideal for thrusts.

It was top-class even among [Needles].

‘How many did he lose back then?’

The smith who made [Ember] had created several others, all of which were lost due to… well, let’s just say an idiotic bloodline.

[Endure], [Destruction], [Ember]—he vaguely remembered more.

They were probably still documented somewhere in the elven cities—along with records of the thieving humans responsible.

The elven warrior who was attacked and killed had lost them all.

The weapons had fallen into the hands of the unworthy and unskilled.

Which should never have happened.

‘They just need to end up with someone worthy.’

So in Sinar’s eyes, it was only right that Encrid now wielded [Ember].

“It’s famous, so is anyone going to try to reclaim it?”

“If you hide the hilt, even other elves won’t notice. The name [Ember] is written in Elvish just under the guard. Just cover that.”

She turned around after saying that.

Encrid understood perfectly.

‘She means—use it, just keep it hidden.’

He would.

He’d picked up a fine blade—no need to return it.

He wasn’t without his own sword greed.

After a good sweat with Sinar, Encrid got hungry again.

He washed up and explored the makeshift village-like encampment.

There was no blacksmith, but people were grilling food or stitching fabric here and there.

Everyone looked busy.

This time, he brought Ragna and Dunbakel along. The two had been watching the sparring and didn’t seem to have anything to do.

“Want to come?”

“Sure.”

“I figured you ate something good yesterday—the smell was everywhere.”

Dunbakel was a beastkin. Her sense of smell was sharp and sensitive—and she said she had a passion for delicious food.

“Follow me.”

Again, Encrid found a good spot and picked up random bites.

He didn’t reveal who he was. But after watching how he interacted with the soldiers, Dunbakel quickly claimed she was just part of the reinforcements too.

“Who made this? It’s amazing.”

“I did.”

“Well done, man.”

Dunbakel tousled the young soldier’s hair. The boy flushed red.

A few asked Ragna questions, but he stayed silent.

He looked lost in thought—or like he was searching for something.

The soldiers kept their distance.

“He’s kinda… off, isn’t he?”

One of them actually nailed it.

No one paid attention.

But Encrid heard—and understood.

He himself might look fine, but his squad? Definitely seemed odd.

“Hey, didn’t I tell you not to bring weirdos?”

One soldier snapped. But Encrid, as always, let it slide.

“Yeah, I’ll be careful.”

“You always say that…”

“Don’t.”

“What did you just say, you—”

“I said, don’t.”

“…Tch.”

“Don’t act like a jackass.”

He wasn’t saying this to provoke—he just didn’t want trouble.

Nearby soldiers stepped in and calmed things down.

Even the hotheads backed off.

“Just watch yourself.”

That was all they said.

Encrid figured that showed discipline.

They could’ve easily picked a fight—but they didn’t.

If they had, he might’ve had to go full Rem on them for a bit.

‘Chomp.’

When he smacked his lips, Helma gave him a weird look.

He ignored it and kept eating.

The grilled trout, crayfish, and marinated eel were so good that even Ragna glanced over at the cook.

His eyes sparkled. That was rare.

Normally, the guy was picky.

“That marinade’s a family secret, got it?”

The soldier’s seasoning was worth calling legendary. He kept checking Dunbakel’s reaction too.

An odd one, that guy.

Encrid did only minimal training, then focused on eating, drinking, and resting.

His body hadn’t fully recovered yet.

While support soldiers were busy cooking and crafting, there were a few on the front end of the camp who felt different.

Garrett’s battalion didn’t have many combat-ready soldiers, but the best among them were here.

The Green Pearl [Ranger Unit], the Plains Recon Squad.

“Heading out on patrol?”

“Who are you? What unit?”

They were clearly allies—but recon was dangerous. You didn’t just answer a stranger who showed up.

A few soldiers gave him cautious stares.

“Reinforcements.”

Encrid showed his shoulder badge.

The high-tower insignia of the Border Guards.

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

One soldier, likely ranked [Elite] under Naurilia’s classification, responded.

Short but fast—Encrid noticed that immediately.

He also noticed the soldier’s light gear, posture, where their weight rested.

‘Goes for the first step and finishes with a thrust.’

A stiletto swayed at the soldier’s hip.

From [Isolation Technique] and lessons from Audin, Encrid had learned to read that.

He saw their level of training, processed it, and reached a conclusion.

“Here.”

He tossed a strip of seasoned jerky from his pouch.

The elite soldier caught it, still watching him warily.

“What’s this?”

“Taste it. It’s good.”

A nearby soldier tore off a piece and chewed.

“Got bread? Try dipping it.”

Encrid handed them marmalade too.

A Border Guard specialty. If you didn’t like this, your tongue was broken.

Supplies weren’t scarce—but not abundant either.

They couldn’t freely go hunting, and monsters had to be dealt with now and then.

Aside from the archers guarding the watchtowers, the Rangers were this unit’s core.

They had no cavalry at all.

“This is good.”

One scout mumbled.

The elite soldier—the squad leader, likely—snorted.

“What’s your deal? Are you even reporting to your superior?”

He hadn’t. So he did—by mentally reporting to himself and accepting the response.

“I’m just sharing because it’s rough out here. Eat.”

“…Weirdo.”

Even after that, Encrid continued exploring the base and focusing on rest and food.

There was much to learn just by walking around.

They had built the watchtowers in tight clusters over a small area.

That made defense easier—but vulnerable to flanking.

Still, some risks had to be accepted.

On the fourth day since Encrid’s arrival—just as the sun dipped below the horizon—a messenger sprinted into camp.

All eyes turned toward him.

“The enemy is right at our doorstep!”

The words echoed from the command tent and spread across the base.