Chapter 805

Chapter 805

“Oh.”
The Marquis of Baisar extended a trembling hand. Even the simple act of sitting up seemed to exhaust his remaining strength.
The aide stationed near Kin moved quickly, grasping his superior’s hand to assist him. The mere effort of standing left the Marquis gasping for air.
“Keugh!”
As the Marquis began to heave, the butler hurried over with a broad metal basin, pressing it against the man’s chin. The Marquis endured a violent coughing fit that seemed to choke the life out of him, discharging dark, discolored phlegm streaked with crimson. Once the episode passed, Kin was the one who cleaned his lips.
“Huuh.”
Sucking in a ragged breath, the Marquis exhaled a heavy sigh. Though Enkrid wasn’t standing particularly close, the scent of approaching death clung to the man’s respiration.
It was an aroma of stagnant earth, oppressive and humid.
“I have been anticipating your arrival.”
“To what end?”
Enkrid spoke without pretension. Engaging in hollow pleasantries felt like an insult to a man whose hours were clearly numbered.
“You are aware of my goal.”
Despite his frailty, the Marquis’s eyes remained piercing and focused. They lacked the fog of the elderly who lose their grip on reality and forget the faces of their kin.
This was the Marquis of Baisar—a titan of his lineage who had commanded respect for decades. He had been a pillar for the crown and a formidable rival to the throne alike, yet he had always ensured the survival of his house.
With the gravity of a lifetime’s authority, he spoke. The sheer resonance of his voice seemed to momentarily push back the shadow of the reaper at his shoulder.
“Marry Kin. That is the request I make before I depart. Perhaps a sturdy grandson for me to hold would be even better.”
Enkrid felt his breath hitch for a second. He briefly questioned if the old nobleman’s mind had finally fractured—but it was a fleeting thought.
Only a moment ago, the man was hacking up blood; now, a subtle, knowing smirk touched the corners of his mouth.
“Simply a prank.”
Observing Enkrid’s shock, the Marquis let out a thunderous laugh. Listening to that robust sound, one would never suspect the man was on the brink of the grave.
This deception, if compared to a blade’s edge, was masterful.
Did the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship not teach this very principle? That the heart of a lie is the willingness to bet one’s soul on the fabrication. To project a falsehood with such conviction that it becomes truth—exactly as this patriarch had just done.
It was a psychological strike Enkrid hadn’t seen coming. He believed he was immune to such trifles, which was precisely why it landed so effectively. For a heartbeat, he had left himself wide open.
‘If Jaxon had witnessed that, he’d have given me an earful.’
Had he grown arrogant following his recent victories? He didn’t think himself a god, but perhaps he had begun to believe he was beyond being caught off guard.
Yet, no mind can calculate every variable. This is as true in the theatre of life as it is on the field of honor.
A hidden thorn that evades one’s perception can strike the heart at any moment.
‘If I am tricked, then I am tricked.’
It meant accepting that fallibility is part of being alive. One must acknowledge the possibility of taking an unexpected hit.
What matters is the recovery. Even when startled or unsettled, one must act.
‘Refinement is the key.’
Knights are often viewed as walking disasters. It is through relentless discipline that they transcend the mundane and enter the realm of the extraordinary. This evolution does not cease simply because one attains the rank of knight.
‘To avoid being a mere pretender, swinging a blade with skill is only half the battle.’
It had been nothing more than a brief bit of levity, yet it provided Enkrid with a moment of clarity. This was likely the result of his accumulated trials—from the encounter with Balrog to the siege at Thorn Castle. His dialogue with Lua Gharne likely weighed in as well.
The philosophy of “battle arts” drifted through his consciousness. It was a continuation of his previous realizations. Ultimately, the human element is the soul of any technique.
“Your mental recovery is impressive.”
The Marquis noted. Enkrid’s internal process was far swifter than that of a common soldier. What felt like a long meditation had occurred in the span of a blink.
“You caught me by surprise,” Enkrid admitted.
The Marquis gave a slow, pleased nod.
The joke hadn’t been intended for amusement. He had wanted to gauge the caliber of the man Enkrid had become—to see if he remained a solitary wanderer or if the lure of status had corrupted him.
He had rattled the cage on purpose. Enkrid felt a surge of genuine respect.
As the saying goes, a seasoned blade retains its bite.
The Marquis was no knight, and Enkrid could have ended him with a casual movement, yet the aura of a man who had spent a lifetime navigating the corridors of power was not a thing to be dismissed.
The Marquis had spotted the moment of weakness and recognized the exact second Enkrid regained his footing.
The old man continued:
“The turbulence currently shaking the capital is a seed planted by the South. Never lose sight of the fact that they are constantly preparing for conflict. I shared this with His Highness, but I believe you are the one who will truly heed my warning.”
He spoke as if he knew Enkrid would wonder why such strategic secrets were being shared with him.
Was this a foresight granted by impending death, or merely the sharp instinct of a veteran statesman?
The Marquis controlled the flow, answering the unasked questions.
The unrest—this undercurrent of chaos—was the handiwork of the Southern regions. And deep in the South sat the formidable kingdom of Rihinstetten.
That realm, which bordered the Demon Realm, was locked in an eternal struggle against nightmarish creatures and beasts that the Central Continent could barely fathom.
Suddenly, Enkrid could no longer sense the presence of death around the man. The heavy, damp odor of sickness seemed to vanish. With the fire of his younger years returning to his eyes, the Marquis commanded:
“Do not be bested by those wretched Southerners. It would be an insult to my legacy.”
Such was the decree of a man who had once been a titan of the royal court. He looked as though he had a thousand more words to say, but he stopped there.
“Then keep a sharp eye on me from the afterlife.”
It was a retort to the earlier joke. Kin gasped, staring at Enkrid with wide, horrified eyes.
How could he speak so callously to a dying man? Was there no compassion in him? She seemed to wonder if Rem had taken Enkrid’s form and come to mock them.
The Marquis, however, let out another booming laugh.
“My ability to judge character remains impeccable.”
He سپس motioned for them to withdraw.
“Go now.”
Enkrid had come only because the Marquis had requested a final audience. There was nothing left to discuss.
Yet, as he reached the door, he turned and asked:
“Is this about a grudge? Or is it about shielding what remains?”
Was it the intuition of a warrior, or Enkrid’s own strange perception?
The Marquis thought he had masked his motivations, but Enkrid had sensed the truth. The dying man picked his response with care.
“Let us call it both. I have always been a man of many desires. And I should mention—I have other beautiful daughters besides Kin.”
Was the Marquis of Baisar always this charming?
Now that he thought of it, Marcus was never one to be quiet either. A lion does not sire a sheep, and this was likely the Marquis’s true spirit—a flash of the boldness he possessed in his youth.
Time is like a river wearing away at a cliffside—it reshapes a man. As the years piled up and his responsibilities grew, the Marquis had become guarded, unable to speak his mind. Yet, during the most pivotal moments, he had made the daring moves that brought him to this point.
And now, with the world falling away, who was he? It was a difficult thing to summarize. Enkrid stepped out of the room, a complex knot of feelings tightening in his chest.
The Marquis stared silently out at the horizon.
He had called it greed, but looking at Enkrid had brought back the memory of a ghost.
“I will hold the line.”
That had been the favorite phrase of the departed. He had been the primary blade of House Baisar—and the Marquis’s closest childhood companion. A man born with a divine talent for combat.
They looked nothing alike and had different souls, so why did Enkrid evoke that memory?
‘He was just as stubborn.’
His friend had been identical in that regard. Had House Baisar truly enjoyed a peaceful existence? No. There had been many trials. Far too many to count.
A violent wind once nearly destroyed the family’s wealth. A dark tide had claimed many lives. And in the center of those catastrophes, his friend had drawn his sword and stood firm.
That was half a century ago. The southern defenses were failing, and the throne had called up even the private guards of the nobility. His friend had fallen in that theater of war.
Had it been a clean, honorable duel, he would have accepted it.
“This was a trial of blades,” the warrior of Baisar had claimed.
“No, this was an execution by war,” the victor had replied.
It wasn’t about cowardice. The reality was brutal: they were defeated because they were outmatched in talent, in resources, and in numbers. It was a time defined by scarcity.
If it hadn’t been for the intervention of Cypress, that once-in-a-century prodigy, Naurillia would have perished then.
From those scars, Naurillia began its long, slow fall, and eventually, Azpen turned its hungry eyes toward them.
Time is a heartless thing. But—
‘The balance eventually finds its level.’
At the end of that long, painful road, the lady of luck had placed a massive weight on the scales.
Witnessing that weight now, the Marquis settled back into his bed with a look of peace. This night, he would find rest.
He had shared a truth he had never told a soul. With that weight lifted, he could let go.
“Father.”
Kin’s voice reached him.
“Go to the Border Guard. And do not return here.”
They say every child matters, but some burdens are heavier than others.
He had taken in the daughter of his dead friend’s widow and brought her under the protection of House Baisar. He had raised her as his own, yet perhaps that sanctuary had been its own kind of prison. Was the Marquis blind to this? No.
He had lived long enough to be wise. He understood it all—he simply had nothing else left to offer.
“Go, Kin. My child.”
Kin’s composure broke into tears. She watched his life force flickering like a candle in a draft. The strength that had defied death minutes ago was gone; in its place was only an old man ready to sleep.
“I will, Father.”
The Marquis shut his eyes. Tonight, his dreams would be kind.
As the dark pulled him in, he saw golden sunlight and a vast field. Soft clouds drifted over a small cottage in the distance.
And there, at the field’s edge, his friend was waiting for him, exactly as he had hoped.
“Have you had a long journey?”
“Can’t you show me some respect like you used to?”
“Is that what you want?”
He saw everyone he had missed. His wife, taken by fever years ago, walked toward him with a smile—the patient, loving look of a woman who could soften any of his frustrations. It was the smile of the one who always knew how to listen.
Flanked by his friend and his wife, the Marquis walked into the light.

—

Walking away, Enkrid contemplated the history of the Marquis of Baisar and his family.
‘To hold a seat among the high nobility, a private army is a necessity.’
Marcus had mentioned it once in passing.
“Even now, our family’s guards are capable, but this is a shadow of what we once were. This is the era of our fading. Our true power was when my father was in his prime.”
The implication was clear.
‘They once had knights in their service.’
That was no small feat. With a force of knights, House of Baisar must have been a dominant power.
And perhaps the Marquis’s enduring grief was rooted in their loss.
It was a mere hunch, but he had hit the mark. Not that Enkrid intended to dwell on it.
Only Kraiss would have obsessed over such details, and had Kraiss been present, he would have been frustrated.
“Why stop halfway, sir? Use that intellect of yours. Seize what is available, and prepare for the coming storm.”
And Enkrid would have replied with his usual stoicism:
“That is what I have you for.”
It was the truth, and it would have left Kraiss with nothing to say.
The rhythmic pitter-patter of rain greeted him as he left the estate.
“Sir, please, use the carriage.”
A young squire approached.
“No need.”
Enkrid declined and continued on foot, his mind moving as he walked.
The house of the Marquis had its tragedies. But who didn’t?
On this soil, everyone lives in the shadow of conflict, monsters, and wild beasts.
‘The ruin and the cessation of steel.’
It was a melody often hummed by those who dwelt in the Demon Realm. Softly whistling the tune, Enkrid made his way back to the training grounds.
The sun had passed its peak, but the sky remained a bruised purple. A heavy, clouded afternoon.
“You certainly stay active. Don’t tell me you were off visiting a lady?”
Knight Aisia called out as he entered the square.
“Perhaps you’d care to give me a lesson, Captain Enkrid?”
She teased him, but Enkrid gave a serious nod.
His arm was almost fully recovered. This wouldn’t be a duel to the death—a training session would be fine.
“A woman? Hmm, I smell the scent of a patriarch and a girl.”
Shinar, lounging in a chair nearby, made a show of sniffing the breeze.
“Yes, I am aware you visited House Baisar,” Rophod added from across the yard.
The keen-eared elf overheard and fixed a cold, emotionless stare on him. It was a look of pure disdain.
“Worthless weed.”
An open provocation.
Rophod ignored the slight, but Pell took offense on his behalf and shouted a challenge.
“Hey, weed! Face me!”
“Who are you calling a weed?”
“Scrub grass is a weed, not a garden.”
The rain continued to fall. The droplets were small but persistent, suggesting a long storm. The air was thick and muggy, causing sweat to break out even without movement.
Despite the weather, the knights and the Royal Guard continued their drills without hesitation.
There was a time when Enkrid practiced in solitude. Now, he was surrounded by others doing the same.
“You should avoid overexerting yourself.”
Audin stood beside Shinar, offering a warning.
Enkrid replied casually.
“Aisia is still just a squire. There’s no risk here.”
He was referring to a simple, low-stakes bout.
But sometimes, the simple truth can be the sharpest insult.
Aisia’s jaw locked. The muscles in her face tensed, her expression shifting into one of fierce, concentrated determination.