Chapter 802

Chapter 802

The astonishment of the sentry rippled into the manor’s interior.
“The master has a packed schedule this afternoon. I trust you can overlook the delay.”
Before long, a prominent figure from the loyalist faction emerged to greet the arrivals—a face Enkrid recognized instantly.
This man, formerly a battalion leader within the Border Guard, had ascended to the rank of Count Marcus.
“I feel as though I’m being summoned against my will,” Enkrid remarked.
“If you truly felt that way, you would have simply forced your way in,” Marcus replied, meeting the jab with a boisterous laugh. His bold nature remained unchanged. Despite the knowledge that Enkrid had recently decimated a sea of abominations, Marcus’s expression held deep admiration without a trace of fear.
Whether this was genuine or a practiced facade, it was a masterful quality for a leader. It is often said that the swiftest path to gaining loyalty is to offer it unconditionally.
“Shall we share some tea?”
Enkrid gave a silent nod, his eyes drifting toward Aisia, who was acting as their protector. Once a member of the Cypress Order of Knights, she had been folded into the sovereign’s personal guard—a detail Enkrid recalled from one of Crang’s long-winded correspondences.
“If you keep indulging in such decadent feasts every day, Aisia, you’re going to find yourself softening around the middle.”
At Enkrid’s blunt greeting, a pulse throbbed in Aisia’s temple. He truly had a talent for starting a conversation by twisting a knife.
“…Is that the best greeting you can manage?”
“Do I need another?”
The mockery was thin, but it served as a salutation nonetheless. Observing their prickly exchange, Marcus gestured toward the door.
“Please, step inside.”
As they entered the heart of the keep, a servant stepped forward to escort the companions to their respective quarters.
“I’ll catch up with you later. Idle chatter is a waste of energy right now,” Rem muttered, dabbing away a smear of blood from his nostril.
“Just point me in the right direction; I know my way around this place,” Ragna informed the servant, causing Rophod to sigh and shake his head in the background.
Audin offered a silent, brief invocation, while Teresa clasped her hands in a respectful nod of concurrence.
“They certainly haven’t changed,” Marcus noted, his tone more guarded than when he spoke to Enkrid. He sensed no leverage over these individuals. Without Enkrid’s presence to anchor them, they would likely be a law unto themselves.
“Fiancé, you haven’t forgotten the way to my chambers, have you?” Shinar traced a finger along Enkrid’s sleeve as she spoke, causing Marcus’s eyes to bulge.
‘What was that?’
One by one, the party trailed after the servants. Rophod was busy lecturing Ragna’s escort to ensure he actually remained in his room when Marcus leaned in.
“Has the elven commander always been so… forward?”
He knew the answer was no. Initially, she had been a figure of distant humor, maintaining a stoic mask and keeping everyone at arm’s length. The ethereal, cold mystique Marcus once associated with her was beginning to crumble.
“Time alters people,” Enkrid answered simply. Truthfully, even he found the fairy’s evolution startling at times.
“I suppose it does.”
Marcus watched Shinar’s departure for a moment before turning to lead the way again.
Ultimately, only Enkrid remained to join Marcus for tea.
The Count’s workspace was a mirror of his soul: tidy and functional. It contained only the barest essentials for storage, a pair of blades and a shield mounted on the wall, and an entirely clear desk.
An attendant arrived with two steaming cups and a plate of biscuits crafted from pressed, steamed grains like wheat and barley.
The treats were rugged and lacked any hint of sugar—a snack perfectly suited to Marcus’s utilitarian tastes.
“I understand there is friction in the capital?”
A subtle aroma of jasmine drifted from the perfectly heated cup. Enkrid took a sip, using the dry biscuit to neutralize his palate, which highlighted the rich, toasted notes of the grain.
“We established commercial links with the Holy City and the merchant hubs, and we secured the Stone Road that connects the western territories to the Border Guard. We purged the surrounding lands of predators and kept the highwaymen from organizing… but that meant the capital had to open its gates. The influx of people brought the complications with them.”
Marcus was direct, presenting his analysis with a measured cadence. He didn’t rush, ensuring each point landed with clarity.
Enkrid was perceptive, yet piecing together the political landscape without prior context was a challenge. Nevertheless, he grasped the subtext of Marcus’s explanation.
The Count wasn’t just dumping data; he was highlighting the root of the rot so Enkrid could see the pattern.
Once a man’s objective is clear, his words become easy to parse. The attentive listening skills Enkrid had developed under his mentors served him well here.
So—what was the true cost of this “influx”?
‘Security is compromised.’
Untraceable foreigners were now weaving through Naurill. Some were likely the source of the “friction” Marcus described. This wasn’t merely a localized gang of thieves; that wouldn’t be described as an “undercurrent,” nor would Andrew have flagged it as a significant concern.
Identifying the source didn’t make the solution any easier. One couldn’t simply bar the gates and stifle the economy just because the newcomers were stirring the pot.
“A wagon that has gathered speed on a slope cannot be halted,” Marcus observed.
It was the same analogy Kraiss had used regarding the expansion of the Border Guard. Naurill was in a similar predicament. If you try to stop that wagon by force, the contents will be destroyed and scattered. The only option is to guide the descent so it doesn’t plummet off a cliffside.
Marcus offered no further detail. Without pausing to see if Enkrid had fully processed the metaphor, he shifted topics.
“Save the heavy politics for after you’ve rested. More pressingly—will you meet with my father?”
He was referring to a meeting after the formal audiences with the sovereign and the high nobility, likely in three days. Marcus’s father was the esteemed Marquess of Baisar.
“A private meeting?” Enkrid asked, surprised by the request.
Marcus’s face clouded with a complicated emotion. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a heavy sigh.
“His time is running out.”
Mortality is the one constant. Even for those born with great vitality, reaching a century is a rare feat.
While knights could use their Will to stave off the years and wizards had their arcane secrets, for a common man, the end was inevitable.
Death is a scavenger, lured by the brittle, musty scent of a life reaching its twilight. That scavenger was now circling the Marquess of Baisar. Once the last drop of life’s essence was spent, the Marquess would cease to be.
Regardless of a man’s earthly influence, he cannot parry the blow of old age. The Marquess was not the type to cling to existence as a restless spirit or a ghoul, so the end was being accepted. Every remedy and divine favor had undoubtedly already been exhausted.
“…I understand.”
Enkrid saw no reason to decline. He could hear the weight of the plea in Marcus’s voice—it was a request coming from the father, through the son.
Enkrid nodded his consent, though he made it clear it wouldn’t be an immediate visit.
“My father’s moments of lucidity are brief, so I will notify you when he is ready. Oh, and I assume your journey involved more than just hunting common beasts?”
“I managed to strike two targets with one blow.”
“Two targets?”
“The Thorn Castle within the Demon Realm.”
“…Excuse me?”
Marcus’s eyes snapped wide. That fortress was a legendary obstacle; the Red Cloak Order had launched three full-scale assaults against it, only to be repelled every time.
“That location?”
“It became an objective of opportunity.”
“One does not simply ‘happen’ to conquer a stronghold like that.”
Marcus was stunned, but reflecting on the history of the Mad Order of Knights, he realized nothing was truly impossible for them. Strategically, this could redefine the entire Demon Realm campaign.
Marcus had once been known as the War Maniac during his command days. In reality, he was a man of cold, calculated precision, and the nickname had been a psychological tool.
Because of that expertise, he now served as a vital strategic advisor to the crown.
“Give me the details of the engagement.”
Marcus’s shock was tempered by genuine respect. Regardless of their personal history, the warrior sitting across from him had just shifted the geopolitical scales of the Naurillian Kingdom. He was also the only man capable of leashing those fanatics.
Marcus assumed the report was over, but Enkrid wasn’t finished.
“And.”
“There’s more…?”
‘What else could there be?’ If the fall of Thorn Castle was the secondary news, what could be the primary? Enkrid wasn’t the sort to boast about trivialities.
If it was the massive cull of monsters, Marcus was already aware. That news had traveled fast and loud. It wasn’t even a secret for spies; it was public record.
If he was going to talk about the refugees from the Demon Realm, Marcus was ready to give a standard diplomatic response. He was already rehearsing his lines.
“My true objective was the execution of the Balrog.”
The sound of porcelain hitting wood echoed.
Marcus set his cup down with trembling care—praying he wouldn’t shatter the fine china—as he processed the statement.
He knew the legend of Oara’s final stand. Even a mere sliver of the Balrog’s essence was a foe that could consume a master knight’s life. The actual progenitor of that power… that was a threat requiring a mobilized national crusade.
Marcus took a long breath to steady his nerves before speaking.
“So, you never found it. Understandable; such entities are elusive and unpredictable.”
His palms were slick with cold sweat. He wiped them against his trousers before meeting Enkrid’s gaze again.
Beneath that dark hair, the blue eyes were like frozen lakes. No tremor. His voice remained as level and unyielding as a mountain path.
“I destroyed it.”
Marcus’s logic centers buckled, and he stammered a foolish question.
“You mean you found something that resembled the creature?”
Marcus didn’t even know the monster’s true form—how could he judge a resemblance? It was the kind of idiotic remark made by someone who had never faced a true nightmare.
Only a survivor of such a clash would know the truth, and Enkrid was not a man prone to delusions or errors of identity.
Realizing his lapse, Marcus tried again.
“You mean you defeated an avatar or a fragment.”
“No.”
“No?”
“The source itself. Its true body.”
“The… the true body?”
Marcus found himself parroting the words, his composure utterly shattered. Usually, his peers referred to him as Marcus the Unmoved, but currently, he couldn’t even keep his mouth closed.
Enkrid explained the progression: how he had first encountered the fragment in Oara and eventually stood before the prime entity—a being capable of warping reality into a labyrinth and wielding the powers of the divine.
Marcus sat in stunned silence. There were no words for a feat of that magnitude. Finally, pulling himself back to the present, he managed:
“That explains the state of your company.”
The evidence had been there all along—the heavy bandaging and deep exhaustion. He had suspected they had done more than just clear a few monster dens.
Knowing the raw power of the Mad Order, he had expected something significant, but the reality was beyond his wildest theories.
He didn’t even dare to ask for a blow-by-blow account of the fight. And in that moment, he decided to keep this from the King—at least for an hour or two.
The King would be just as paralyzed by the news. Even Crang, who had become a pillar of stability lately, would likely lose his footing over this.
It wasn’t an act of treason to delay the report. Enkrid and Crang were companions—Enkrid should be the one to deliver the news to his friend. Besides, the sovereign had plenty to occupy his mind.
‘If I’m being honest… I just want to see the look on Crang’s face when he hears it.’
Marcus pushed that selfish thought aside. It was a coping mechanism to deal with the sheer gravity of what had just been revealed.
“…We will finish this later. My mind is reeling. I need a moment to collect myself.”
At the dismissal, Enkrid rose and followed an escort to his assigned room.
He scanned the corridors for any familiar guards, but the faces were all new.
He noted that the palace security had been significantly bolstered since his last visit. Phalanxes of spear-wielding guards were stationed at key junctions, supplemented by agile swordsmen in lighter armor.
Crang’s letters had mentioned a plan to split the guard into two distinct branches: the traditional Royal Guard and a new, elite division focused on cultivating high-level talent.
‘I suppose Aisia will be the one breaking them in.’
He didn’t dwell on it. Even though he possessed incredible stamina, his body still craved a reprieve—especially while his flesh was still knitting back together.
He abandoned his thoughts and followed a servant to the baths. The steaming water worked to unknot the tension in his muscles. The lingering throb in his shoulder began to recede.
Once the grime of the road was gone, a few attendants arrived to assist in cleaning.
Feeling human again, he returned to his chambers and collapsed into a bed of exceptional softness.
The moment he surrendered to sleep, Enkrid found himself standing before the Ferryman.
A soft splash echoed.
Above the gray, desolate expanse that opened like a hungry maw, the Ferryman began to speak.