Chapter 804

Chapter 804

Whoosh.

A soldier, identifying Crang, halted his blade mid-swing. He shifted his grip to his left hand and lowered his head in a respectful gesture.

“Greetings, Your Highness.”

Following his lead, several other guards who realized who had entered offered military salutes, bowing to the master of the palace. A handful of others simply gaped at him in stunned silence.

“Carry on with your business,” Crang replied, his tone clipped and informal, showing little concern for the rigid decorum usually expected of royalty.

For some time, various aristocrats had urged him to refine his common speech and casual demeanor. Crang had reportedly dismissed these suggestions, claiming he preferred to use genuine sincerity as his primary tool to bridge the gap between himself, the military, and the citizenry. Despite this, Crang was fully capable of projecting immense authority and speaking with the weight of the crown when the occasion demanded it.

‘I have witnessed him radiate an even more powerful presence,’ Enkrid thought.

He had seen it firsthand on multiple occasions: during their initial meeting, at the conclusion of the internal conflict, later in the streets of Oara, and even after Enkrid had earned his knighthood. Whenever it was necessary, Crang could command the absolute focus of everyone in his vicinity in a heartbeat.

It was difficult to label such a quality; it seemed to be something he was simply born with. While it was standard for those on the throne to weigh every syllable and maintain a polished exterior, such rules did not apply to a man like Crang. The conventional expectations established by the masses held no sway over individuals who existed outside the boundaries of the ordinary. He was a man who validated a sovereign’s right to lead through his own personal magnetism, dignity, and aura. This moment provided a small window into that part of his character.

“This is the training grounds of the palace, a sanctuary for those dedicated to shielding the royal line. Therefore, persisting in your drills is the ultimate expression of your faithfulness. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He finished with a kind, warm expression. The soldiers lowered their heads further, their gazes glowing with intensity. Those were the eyes of men who were utterly captivated by a leader. They were warriors brimming with fealty. If the King commanded it, they would throw their lives away without hesitation.

Behind the King, Matthew and a female combatant carrying a trident tilted their heads slightly. Enkrid recognized them instantly. Back when they were working to halt the civil war, they were among the group trapped in the room, fighting desperately to protect Crang. Even with Enkrid’s struggle to retain memories through his endless cycles of repetition, forgetting people like them was out of the question.

And though he wasn’t currently in the room, Enkrid recalled the name of Rearvart, whom he had glimpsed briefly before the evening meal. This was the same Rearvart who had been a savior during the war and had once referred to Enkrid as his shining champion. He had since established himself as a formidable warrior within the Royal Guard. Enkrid had even made a casual promise to test the man’s progress later on.

“These absolute madmen.”

Marcus was also standing behind the monarch. Usually, Aisia would be tasked with guarding either the King or Marcus, but she appeared to be elsewhere at the moment. It didn’t matter much; this wasn’t a location requiring high security. This was the royal training hall. While the crowd gathered here might seem like standard infantry to Enkrid’s companions, their true status was that of the Royal Guard at the very least. They were the elite core of the security details assigned to the outer fortress or the palace garrison. To put it plainly, the lowest-ranking person in the room was likely a platoon commander or higher.

Marcus scanned the training hall with a sweeping gaze.

‘From midday until the deep of night.’

These soldiers were known for their fixation on practice, but they still paled in comparison to true fanatics. They hadn’t taken a break, yet they weren’t being coerced—it was obvious to anyone watching that they were enjoying the grind, training of their own volition. The regular palace guards had been swept up in that fervor. The word had traveled, and now every soldier with the clearance to enter the training grounds had converged here.

“I admit defeat.”

One such man stood among them—smaller than Audin, with a face that looked a bit older than Enkrid’s, though he hadn’t yet reached thirty. He was a retainer of the Marquis of Octo, a warrior who took great pride in his prowess. More specifically, he was a gifted fighter patronized by the marquis. He had come to test himself, only to be knocked unconscious by a palm strike to the jaw from Pell. He had just come to.

Enkrid had just finished highlighting the flaws he had observed in the man’s technique.

“Seek out genuine battle. Experience every type of conflict—from dishonorable street fights to formal duels for prestige.”

The man possessed significant natural ability. But that was his limit—it was only talent. He required time to be defeated, to learn, to struggle, to think, and to analyze his failures. If he lacked the fortitude to endure that process, he would go no further. That was the ceiling for those who relied solely on innate skill.

“Shall we step inside to converse? You can’t have a drink while you’re soaked in sweat, though. Go clean yourself up, Enki,” Crang said, moving toward a small parlor situated next to the hall.

A few soldiers looked on in surprise. They were aware the two shared a bond, but seeing the King seek out someone for a drink and then wait for them to bathe was a rare sight.

“I’ll do that,” the knight Enkrid replied smoothly, moving to follow the suggestion.

The training session that had stretched into the night under the glow of the twin moons finally concluded.

—

Crang truly did wait for them to finish washing.

“Apologies, there isn’t much to go around.”

The Founding Liquor he had brought was only enough to fill five vessels. Not even Crang could easily justify opening a fresh, sealed bottle of the legendary spirit, so he had brought a bottle that had been opened previously. Enkrid sipped the drink poured by the King’s own hand. The golden liquid shimmered in the moonlight as he tasted it. Initially, it carried the fragrance of wood smoke, and while the scent was potent, it was quite pleasant.

Powerful yet delicate. Delicate yet powerful. It was a liquid paradox.

As he swallowed, a sharp heat spread through him, as if a gentle fire were coating his throat. It was hot, but it didn’t burn. Once it went down, the lingering taste was a complete departure from the initial hit—it felt like biting into a ripe fruit and holding the essence of its juice on the tongue. Even this intense sweetness was not overwhelming.

Robust, yet incredibly smooth.

“This is no common vintage,” Enkrid remarked with genuine respect.

“It is known as the Founding Liquor,” Crang said with a satisfied, gentle smile.

“A shame there’s only a drop,” Rem said, licking his lips at the meager portion. He had somehow secured a cup for himself, and his eyes were wide with a predatory intensity. To an outsider, he might have looked ready for a fight, but those who knew him recognized it as the expression of a man captivated by a fine drink.

“Rophod, you seem to be faring well. You look much healthier,” Crang noted casually.

It was startling that he remembered the man’s name, though given his current position, perhaps it wasn’t that shocking. Still, there was something impressive about the way the King could use names so naturally and display such closeness. Even without a formal private meeting, the King’s approachable air felt entirely earned.

“I’ve been told your family in the West is doing fine, Rem.”

“It seems your scouts are more efficient than mine,” Rem replied, nodding as he smacked his lips again.

“I hear they’ve been asking when you’ll return, claiming there’s no holy warrior like you left in Legion?”

“I told them that where my heart resides is where my master stays, and where my spirit turns is where the battle lies.”

Crang shared a few words with Audin as well, then glanced at Ragna, who was preoccupied with muttering to his blade. Crang let him be with a smile. He acknowledged Jaxon with a simple nod. To Pell, he inquired about his life as a shepherd; Pell corrected him, stating he was now a brother of the order, not a herder. Rem cut in to ask exactly when that change had happened, but the rest of the group accepted the statement.

“And how is Lady Shinar Kirheis?”

Shinar, struggling with her energy levels and physical endurance, had been asleep for two consecutive days. She had mentioned needing to visit the Fountain of Life in the city of fairies, and though she was told she should depart, she had declined.

“She is resting.”

“That is a pity. Simply looking at her face is a treat,” Crang remarked. It was a classic Crang comment—a lighthearted jest without any true romantic weight behind it.

“If my wife heard you say that, she’d probably enter the room with a blade in hand,” Enkrid joked back.

The bulk of the conversation was lighthearted chatter. They avoided any talk of the tension in the capital or political unrest until Marcus finally stepped in.

“They mentioned they wanted to hear the account from you directly, so I kept my mouth shut,” Marcus said.

Enkrid looked at him, his eyes questioning the meaning.

“That story,” Marcus clarified.

Realizing what he meant, Enkrid began to speak.

“Ah, the part about saving the villagers.”

“Not that part.”

Only after Marcus prodded him again did Enkrid recount the earlier events, beginning with the fall of Thorn Castle.

“That was a repulsive sight,” Crang noted.

“You’ve encountered it before?”

“I’ve only heard the descriptions, but it wasn’t hard to envision their depravity.”

As Enkrid moved on to the narrative of Balrog’s labyrinth, a strange intensity flared in Marcus’s eyes. He wondered just how shocked the King would be.

“…Sir, you said you took down what?” Matthew was the first to speak, his eyes widening in disbelief, while the trident-wielding guard actually slapped her own face.

*Slap.*

“Need me to do that for you?” Rem quipped immediately after the sound echoed. Marcus turned his expectations toward Crang.

The King sat with his head bowed, staring at the surface of the table. Was he too stunned to find words? Then Crang looked up, his eyes shining with a brilliance that surpassed anything Enkrid had seen before. His skin was pale from lack of rest and nutrition, and deep circles shadowed his eyes—yet they sparkled. It didn’t look like shock; it looked like pure exhilaration.

“That is incredible.”

The words tumbled out of his mouth. Crang had spent part of his life living in the rougher parts of the city, and his old street slang surfaced briefly.

“Right?” Enkrid agreed. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known what Marcus wanted him to say earlier. He had just been toyed with Marcus, knowing full well how Crang would respond. Crang wasn’t the type to be easily shaken by such news. His perspective, his daring, and his view of the world were on a different scale.

“You aren’t going to stop at Balrog, are you?” Crang asked.

The night was illuminated by the two moons. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, leaving the sky a deep, star-dusted blue rather than black. The stars beamed down as if trying to rival the moonlight. Under the watch of every celestial body, Enkrid gave his answer.

“A demon won’t be the final one.”

It was a declaration of his intent to hunt down every single one of them.

“Exactly,” Crang nodded, his smile never wavering.

Rise to knighthood. Wipe out the Demon Realm. Defend those who stand behind him. He was walking a path toward achieving dreams that many would find ridiculous. Balrog was merely a milestone on that journey. Crang understood that.

“Why aren’t you more shocked?” Marcus asked, his expectations deflated.

“I was plenty surprised,” Crang replied, pouring the final drops of the liquor into two cups. Enkrid finished his in a single gulp.

“Just let me have a tiny taste,” Rem pleaded, reaching out, but his wounded body was too slow. Jaxon watched him, shaking his head and making a clicking sound with his tongue.

*Tsk tsk.*

At the sound, Rem grew indignant, and the two began their usual bickering, with Audin acting as the peacemaker. Crang watched the scene and laughed, noting that they hadn’t changed at all.

Laughing along with them, Enkrid looked at Crang and remarked calmly that these were people who were unlikely to ever change. In the middle of the laughter, Enkrid spotted a marking on Crang’s arm he hadn’t noticed before—a tattoo. Judging by the intricate patterns and the script, it was a detailed design whose meaning was difficult to decipher.

“What is that?”

“A sign of recognition,” was the brief reply.

It was a detail most would have missed unless they possessed incredible perception. But Enkrid had been operating with his senses sharpened to the point where he could slice through magic, so he caught it.

‘Something is there.’

Around his companion, he perceived something akin to a shimmering mirage—a constant heat that felt as though it could sear the eyes of anyone looking too closely.

“It is a positive thing. Don’t worry about it,” Crang said, patting his arm. Enkrid gave a nod of acceptance.

The two didn’t delve into the hidden tensions or other heavy topics. Only when it was time to leave did Crang speak up.

“Do me a favor at some point.”

“Whenever you need.”

“Excellent. Then I’ll see you again before long.”

There was no hidden agenda. Tonight was simply about sharing a drink and honoring his friend’s success. Why else would he have brought the Founding Liquor? Crang remained the same as always—a man of unpredictable skill, character, and depth. If it came down to raw physical power, he couldn’t stop an arrow, but his talents would prove invaluable in other ways.

“If you hand over an entire bottle of that, I’ll do ten favors for you,” Rem shouted from the side. Crang let out a chuckle at that.

“I’d prefer a high-quality tea instead,” Marcus added.

They had clearly intended to leave, but the lighthearted joking continued for a while longer. Simply talking and laughing like this was a rare, pleasant experience.

The following day, Enkrid was summoned by the Marquis of Baisar. He had just wrapped up his training and was in the middle of lunch.

*Tap, tap.* A light rain began to fall that afternoon. Even in the drizzle, there were warriors in the hall practicing with absolute focus. Enkrid departed from the inner palace and made his way to the Baisar estate.

“You’ve arrived,” Kin Baisar greeted him. Her face was notably pale, and she didn’t seem to be in peak health. In the Border Guard, she was known as a woman who never stopped smiling and was always buried in her work.

“The Marquis?”

“He is expecting you.”

Behind Kin, an aged butler with snowy hair bowed deeply. Enkrid stepped inside. Passing through a door decorated with formal carvings, he found the frail old man lying in his bed. The Marquis of Baisar had a grey film over his eyes, leaving him nearly blind, and he had lost most of his teeth. His voice was thick and slurred because of his condition, but he was still understandable.

“Sir Enkrid?” the old man wheezed.

Enkrid replied as he walked toward the bedside.

“It is I.”