Chapter 309
A full day had passed since Encrid failed to return.
At some point, the enemy began retreating like the tide receding.
Ragna hadn’t returned, nor had Jaxson.
Krys realized the situation was dire—no, dread gnawed at him relentlessly.
“What’s the highest point nearby? Somewhere with a clear view.”
Even so, he stayed calm.
Panic was useless once disaster had already struck.
Especially now that Encrid was missing.
‘If the Captain’s dead, I might as well be too.’
If Encrid returned as a corpse—what then?
Rem would probably throw an axe at him on sight.
A grim little joke, but it eased nothing.
‘This is bad.’
Even if Encrid wasn’t dead, nothing good would come of it.
Without their Captain, countless problems would erupt.
He couldn’t even list them all, but he knew enough.
One thing was certain—the Mad Squad was finished.
Who could control Rem, Ragna, Jaxson, or Audin?
No one.
Once, a figurehead might have sufficed, but those days were gone.
Now, only the Captain could hold them together.
Without him, could the Border Guard possibly stop Azpen’s spring offensive?
Not a chance.
‘Then I’ll be gone before that happens.’
He wasn’t enough of a patriot to stay and die here.
While Krys stood beneath a tree, lost in thought, Nurat studied the terrain map in her mind.
“Follow me.”
Krys’s shadow under the branches looked ominous.
Nurat thought so, but said nothing.
It was a strange feeling—maybe because Encrid wasn’t there.
A woman’s intuition, and it was right.
Krys without Encrid was like a different man.
“Let’s move faster.”
Krys urged her on.
Nurat brought two horses, and they galloped off.
After crossing several mounds, a rugged slope appeared—a path so steep they had to half climb to ascend.
There’s no lady who dislikes a well-built man, and Krys, who trained hard, didn’t falter for long.
Nurat, seasoned as a warrior, climbed with ease.
Once they reached the top, Krys gazed into the distance.
“Those lunatics.”
The morning light revealed enemy formations hidden among the hills.
Should they pursue? Flank and strike?
‘That’s a bad move.’
If they gave chase and were counterattacked, the ambushers would have every advantage.
Even with high morale after victory—
‘We don’t outnumber them by much.’
One mistake, and everything could flip.
From the start, their goal had been to drive the enemy back, not chase them.
Winter favored their side.
‘How long can they last in this cold? What about supplies?’
Why did Azpen covet Green Pearl in the first place?
Because beyond Naurilia’s plains lay harsh land—hills, valleys, steep ridges, and beasts lurking in the dark.
Surviving winter and maintaining supply lines there was no easy feat.
‘Four, maybe five days at most.’
That’s how long Azpen could endure.
So it was a winning battle.
All they had to do now was stay hidden and shoot from cover.
But there was one problem—Encrid’s absence.
‘Did they really sacrifice the entire battlefield just to capture him?
Abandon everything for a few men?’
It was bold—too bold.
Using elite forces was how one ‘won’ a war.
But abandoning the war itself? What would remain?
Wars were fought for the future, to seize tomorrow.
Could they really go that far?
The grim thought found its answer, but Krys couldn’t believe it.
It was far too extreme.
“One more day,” he decided.
He would wait for his Captain.
To Nurat, the words sounded ominous, but she couldn’t protest.
The big-eyed man without his Captain radiated a strange intensity.
—
Avnaier waited a full day.
There was no need to rush.
He too required time to prepare.
The place where he’d trapped Encrid lay between three mounds, where a valley met a cliff— a perfect snare, built with intent.
All of it to kill just a few men.
‘No variables left?’
He had sown the seeds. Now came the harvest.
A bloody harvest, but one he deemed worthwhile.
Failure was not an option.
Avnaier took a slow sip of sweetened tea.
Sugar sharpened the mind.
What could still go wrong?
He would not make a single mistake.
No matter how skilled the opponent, he wasn’t a knight.
There was no escape.
Avnaier had prepared enough for that.
After his defeat in the previous battle, he had dissected the Border Guard completely.
Had he lost because of that “junior-knight” card?
No.
He’d already lost before that card appeared.
He studied the battle, uncovered the reasons, and found his answers.
Names emerged from his research—
Encrid and the rest of the Mad Squad.
Their skirmishes at the outskirts, their strikes on supply lines—all had woven together into the pattern of his defeat.
Each report of their deeds had made his hair stand on end.
Even within cities, they caused chaos.
Assassins cut down, enemies obliterated—nothing succeeded against the name Encrid.
They were phantoms, untouchable.
So—
‘I’ll be the one to catch them.’
Avnaier was a strategist who excelled at preparation.
He played to his strength—setting the board, thinking endlessly, trapping his prey.
It began with bandits and zealots.
A lucky hand, and he made full use of it.
‘The Black Blades and the Cultists were both formidable enough.’
The Border Guard couldn’t remain unscathed.
Avnaier deliberately avoided battle, waiting for his enemies to split apart.
It would’ve been nice if the bandits and cultists had thinned them out, but no such fortune came.
Still, they had divided.
Encrid left behind Rem, Audin, and Theresa.
‘Catching a united foe is amateur work.’
Besides, Avnaier had already bound his art into this land.
For Encrid, he created the [Triangle Seal].
For the others, he sent blades fit for their madness.
He even played the card of the assassin clans.
‘With this—’
He would kill them.
His mouth felt dry; he drank another sip of tea.
A costly plan, yes.
But what he’d gain were the heads of a few—men who, to him, were the greatest future threats to Azpen.
Once his thoughts were clear, he moved to act.
Sunlight and winter air entered through the open tent flap.
The breeze wasn’t cold.
A fine day for it.
“Let’s begin.”
Avnaier set down his cup with a soft click and spoke.
First on the list: Encrid’s head.
—
Encrid didn’t consider this a crisis.
Not yet.
As long as no blade was at his throat, it wasn’t dangerous enough to call “risk.”
Hidden among the brush, he rested.
‘No matter what, the body comes first.’
His stamina was beyond human—a single night’s rest would restore it fully.
Maybe not perfect, but close enough.
He owed that to Audin’s training.
‘Guess I should thank him later.’
When he returned, he’d make sure to say it.
‘Stamina’s one thing…’
Even so, his body was sore.
He’d swung his sword all day.
If he weren’t in pain, that would be stranger.
Burst veins bruised both forearms.
He hadn’t just swung—he’d punched, kicked, blocked.
He couldn’t afford to go purely offensive when surrounded.
Nor could he parry every blow.
So he’d blocked only the fatal ones, absorbing lesser hits on his shoulders, gauntlets, and greaves.
A mad tactic for most—but to Encrid, trained in Audin’s methods, it was simply technique.
‘A real knight wouldn’t even find this difficult.’
He replayed the battle briefly, chewing on dried meat, then went to the nearby stream to drink.
The water was clear.
He didn’t bother to boil it.
If it made him sick, it’d have to be poisoned.
The sound of running water hinted at a nearby valley.
‘I’ll rest today, escape tomorrow.’
Even without knowing the exact direction, there was a way out—pick a direction and move straight.
Even if it was wrong, once his sense of direction returned, he’d find his way out easily enough.
That was his plan.
‘I wonder how the battle ended.’
He hadn’t had time to look back or check.
He’d done all he could.
That last battle alone had decided the outcome.
The field would end in Naurilia’s favor.
Those who died… that was war.
He didn’t know the exact situation, but he knew there was no need to fight further.
Azpen was a wounded deer now.
He hadn’t seen the full battlefield, but he felt the flow.
He found a broad tree, spread fallen leaves beneath it, and sat down, closing his eyes.
Sleep was needed for recovery.
When he awoke, it was dawn.
His trained body rose instantly into battle readiness.
Rustle.
Footsteps in the grass.
Good thing he hadn’t lit a fire—he’d have given himself away.
‘Even better this way.’
He’d find them, force directions out of them.
Holding his breath, he listened.
Every sound sharpened.
He flexed each muscle, warming them.
The noise came closer.
Rustle—left side.
Shuffle—right side.
They were near.
Encrid lowered his head slightly, peering out.
‘What the hell…’
Not scouts—an entire force.
Spears swept through the brush, stabbing the undergrowth.
Thud, thud, thud—again and again.
Eyes everywhere.
There was no point counting.
Being spotted was inevitable.
“There!”
Their eyes met.
Sharp-eyed bastards.
Encrid rose fully.
“Get him!”
The soldiers charged.
Fighting wasn’t always the right choice.
Encrid moved back.
He wasn’t stupid.
Krys had often said his Captain had a good head.
He was right.
Encrid calculated quickly—running was better than fighting.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Arrows poured in from one side.
‘Madmen.’
At that range, they’d hit their own.
He raised his sword, deflecting the ones he couldn’t dodge, and sprinted toward a large tree for cover.
Thunk!
Several arrows struck the trunk.
“Argh!” “Gah!”
As expected, some hit their own men.
But the arrows didn’t stop.
“Loose!”
“Keep firing!”
Arrows whistled through the air.
Encrid checked his blade, then swung.
A full-powered horizontal slash.
Boom!
The sword struck the tree—and half the trunk split with a thunderous crack.
A deep fissure ran along his blade too.
It had been damaged in the last battle.
He followed up with his gladius,muscles swelling as he struck again.
Crack—split—snap!
The tree toppled.
“What the—?”
The soldier beneath it froze.
Branches crashed down, scattering the formation.
“Move!”
“Crazy bastard!”
Chaos.
Encrid bolted through the opening—south, by his best guess.
He discarded the cracked sword and switched his other sword from his left to his right hip.
“Stop him!”
Heavy infantry blocked the path, fifty strong with thick shields.
He could try to go around—but more enemies were closing in from both sides.
‘So many… too many.’
Had others been caught too?
He stepped back.
He could kill most of them if he charged—but then what?
He wasn’t one to die pointlessly.
He turned and ran again, kicking a stone as he went.
Ting!
The rock spun upward—he struck it midair with his gladius.
Clang!
The pebble shot forward faster than an arrow.
Crack!
It smashed into a crossbowman’s skull.
‘That’s my way out.’
A weak point—among the clustered crossbowmen.
Encrid charged like a predator among grazing beasts.
His gladius hacked, his sword stabbed.
His new sword wasn’t made for slashing, but it pierced beautifully.
After cutting down six, maybe seven, he broke through.
Ahead lay a narrow path carved through the brush—man-made.
‘Perfect.’
He’d found the exit—or so he thought.
“Fire.”
Bolts flew from both sides.
It was a trap, using one squad as bait.
‘Whoever planned this…’
It was merciless.
Encrid rolled forward.
One bolt embedded in his armor—didn’t pierce skin, but he had no time to pull it out.
He kept running, cutting down eight soldiers to his side, fifteen more behind.
He fought, killed, escaped, fought again—from sunrise to sunset.
There was no way out.
It felt like a maze.
He even saw stone walls built by hand—since when had they prepared all this?
Unbelievable.
He couldn’t break through by strength alone, not with hordes still on him.
“What the hell are you people?”
He wasn’t wounded badly, but his limbs trembled.
Too much running, too much fighting.
Everyone had limits.
Knights were said to cut down a thousand men alone.
Then what of a [Junior-Knight]?
He couldn’t.
That’s why he was “Junior.”
While Encrid staggered forward, Avnaier whispered to himself—
“Cut down a thousand on your own. Then you might live.”
Otherwise, he would die.
The strategist of Azpen was certain.
—
Whssshhh!
Dozens of arrows.
Even after cutting, dodging, and running until his last breath, Encrid found himself trapped.
Behind him—three swordsmen from the Hurrier family. Ahead—dozens of shield-bearing heavy infantry.
Then another volley.
He couldn’t dodge—an arrow struck his stomach, another his shoulder.
The inner bandage armor stopped the first,
but the second ruined his left arm.
His pauldron was long gone, his right gauntlet the only one left.
His boots were torn.
Cold wind sliced through the gaps in his shredded armor.
He was a wreck.
Still, Encrid killed two of the Hurrier swordsmen with his sword and severed one more’s arm.
The maimed man glared, bloodshot eyes full of rage.
“I thought this was overkill,” he said.
Encrid had no time to reply.
“Kill him.”
The final act was a storm of arrows.
In truth, one hundred and fifty.
One hundred and fifty longbowmen aimed at a single man.
Encrid ran forward, both blades drawn.
A desperate charge.
“Stop right there!”
The maimed Hurrier threw himself at him.
Encrid split his skull with the gladius—
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Dozens of arrows hit him.
His thigh, his shoulder—one grazed his neck, tearing flesh.
His knees buckled.
He fell, forehead striking the earth.
‘Crazy bastards.’
Only then did Encrid understand.
They had done all this—for him alone.
Madness.
He felt… annoyed.
A death like this—this was new.
As his eyes closed, his body trembled.
He’d lost too much blood—his body couldn’t hold heat.
Death came swiftly.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
Cold seeped in.
He felt it—the chill of death.
And when he opened his eyes—
Splash.
The sound of flowing water.
A ferryman appeared, a purple lamp swaying atop a small boat.
“Was it fun?”
The ferryman asked.