Chapter 807

Chapter 807

Enkrid always found a peculiar joy in observing those who charged toward him. This satisfaction naturally pulled his lips into a faint grin. Seeing this expression, Shinar asked without a moment’s hesitation.

“Why are you smirking like Rem?”

Enkrid snapped back instantly. “Since when is that a slur?”

Ragna, standing by his side, offered his own observation. “While his expression wasn’t exactly pleasant to look at, comparing him to that is a bit much.”

Jaxon chimed in as well. “It’s definitely a low blow.”

Even Audin gave a quiet chuckle as he contributed. “For a split second, Brother Commander, your true nature slipped out. You were picturing yourself crushing them all, weren’t you?”

Hardly. Enkrid turned his gaze toward Rem, who was currently pestering the infantry. The man pulled out his axe and began muttering to it.

“Hmm? You want to chop them up too? I get it. I know your heart. But we have to show restraint. If you slaughter these fools, we won’t have anyone left to use as decoys.”

Rem continued his one-sided conversation with his legendary weapon. Directly in front of him, a soldier—whose thigh had been repeatedly struck under the guise of “improving his stance” until it was a map of bruises—was breaking out in a cold sweat.

People called the Mad Order of Knights “mad” because they fought with the ferocity of berserkers, but Enkrid wondered if they were just actually insane.

For this group, such antics were just another Tuesday. Rophod and Pell didn’t even bother to look over; they were far too occupied with their own duel. Their capabilities were so evenly matched, and their familiarity with each other’s styles so deep, that the bout seemed endless.

Suddenly, Pell made a risky gamble. He discarded his blade and lunged to grab his rival’s arm for a joint lock. However, Rophod had recently begun formal training in Balafian martial arts, moving beyond the scraps of knowledge he’d gathered before. Pell was unaware of this development. When Pell closed the distance, Rophod also dropped his steel, and the two collapsed into a messy grapple on the ground.

The rain had turned the arena into a swamp of silt. The pair looked like a couple of drenched mutts as they tumbled through the muck, soaked to the bone. Neither man gave a damn about the filth or the water. They were perfectly willing to abandon their weapons if it meant securing a win. Their resolve was unmistakable: victory at any cost.

That fire burned clearly in their eyes. You didn’t need any special gift to sense the intensity they projected.

“They’ve improved,” Frokk noted, voicing his respect once more. Having guided them halfway to this point, he felt a sense of pride in their progress.

Naturally, Lua Gharne’s primary interest remained Enkrid’s evolution. To her, every day watching him was a fresh source of delight.

‘Extinguishing embers…’

It was a combination of perception, history, and a style of combat rooted in accelerated thought. No—it wasn’t just swordsmanship; it was a comprehensive philosophy of violence. Even earlier, when he had bested Aisia, it was evident that his prowess wasn’t limited to mere blade work.

‘The lessons he learned while parrying Balrog’s strikes have become his foundation.’

Was it mere fortune? If not, there was too much that defied logic. It seemed to be built on a foundation of profound insight and battle-hardened experience. Insight was one thing—but where did that experience come from?

‘Unless he has fought hundreds of duels against someone of Balrog’s caliber…’

She hadn’t witnessed those hypothetical battles, but Lua Gharne knew the man. The Enkrid who existed before the clash with Balrog was a different person than the one who stood there now. This metamorphosis drove her to analyze him, leading to her current conclusion.

“Crushing them? This is a training session. Accidents happen in a spar, but I have no desire to kill anyone,” Enkrid said, though his voice carried an underlying weight.

The soldier standing across from him, desperate to learn, looked like a lamb to the slaughter. The fact that the man’s legs weren’t buckling yet was a testament to his bravery. His name was Rearvart, if Enkrid recalled correctly.

‘The man himself is the same, but…’

His prowess had reached a terrifying level.

‘Can a rodent ever hope to overcome the serpent it stands before?’

Growth only happens when one is forced to confront a predator. If that isn’t the essence of mysticism, what is?

Frokk, lost in thought, puffed out his cheeks and let out a series of excited snorts. His nostrils twitched as he breathed heavily. Part of his joy likely came from being soaked by the downpour. For a creature like Frokk, the rain and the mud offered the same warmth and comfort a human might find sitting by a roaring fire in the dead of winter.

The soldiers watching them felt their nerves fraying. What had gotten into Frokk? Most were aware of his quirks, but seeing him this worked up was unnerving.

And then there was the fairy. What was her deal? Her beauty far surpassed other fairies, but the words that came out of her mouth were jarring. There were fairies in the Royal Guard as well—not from Kirheis—but they all shared that typical, detached fairy temperament. This one was an outlier.

“Try not to end him. The poor man,” she said, her tone teasing. It was clearly a joke, though half the soldiers present were too terrified to realize it.

“I already said I wouldn’t,” Enkrid replied. He slid his blade back into its scabbard, unhooked the sheath from his belt, and held it like a club.

The heavy *clack* of the wood was more intimidating than the ring of a sharpening stone. To the soldier facing him, it sounded like a death knell.

“A bit late to regret your challenge now,” another soldier whispered.

However, Rearvart didn’t intend to retreat. His words were one thing, but his gaze told a different story. His eyes weren’t burning with fury, but they held a sharp, cold focus—the unmistakable intent to try his best.

“Rearvart, do you plan on standing there until dawn?” Enkrid asked.

“Certainly not, Sir,” the soldier replied, his voice thick with admiration and fear.

The only reason he wasn’t trembling was his unwavering faith in Enkrid. He believed the commander wouldn’t actually kill him, even if the killing intent felt overwhelming. Under that heavy atmosphere, Rearvart managed to draw his sword and strike. The swing wasn’t a masterpiece of form or a legendary blow, but the veteran soldiers watching nodded in silent approval. He had resisted the pressure. He had fought through the fear and made his move. That in itself was a victory.

As the soldiers processed this, Enkrid spoke.

“Have you been slacking off?”

Simultaneously, Enkrid launched a kick at Rearvart’s leg. He pivoted off the ground, his right leg snapping out like a whip, striking the soldier’s thigh with precision.

*Bang!*

The impact sounded like something tearing, though no permanent damage was done.

“Ugh…”

Rearvart couldn’t even manage a full cry of pain as his legs gave way. Yet, he refused to fall completely. He propped himself up on his remaining good leg. His struck thigh was completely numb from the hip down, feeling as though it had been hacked off. Still, he held his ground.

“Your resolve is decent,” Enkrid noted.

In truth, Rearvart’s skills had come a long way. But Enkrid’s bar for excellence was set by the veterans of the Border Guard. He was comparing him to men who would be prodded with knives if they slowed down, who ran through the Pen-Hanil mountain range hauling axes, who were forced to spar with a prodigy like Ragna at a moment’s notice, and who were told, “Brother, are you a man of your word?” if they couldn’t lift massive boulders every single day.

“Next.”

Enkrid moved through the challengers without pause. One soldier managed to catch his eye—the one with the cold, calculating gaze.

‘Pure talent.’

The fluidity of his movements and his natural instincts were remarkable. It reminded Enkrid of Brunhilt, the gifted child he had encountered in the Pen-Hanil mountains. This soldier had that same spark.

However, his discipline and battle experience were severely lacking. You could tell just by standing in front of him.

‘The kind of person who leans on talent and neglects the grind.’

He was reminiscent of Ragna in that regard. Enkrid decided to give him a harsh wake-up call.

“If you only trust your natural gifts and your form, a Westerner will end you.”

As he spoke, he swept the man’s leg and threw a punch that just clipped his chin. The single strike was enough to short-circuit the man’s balance, sending him sprawling.

“And your heart is weaker than Rearvart’s.”

The critique was biting. The earlier praise for his potential seemed irrelevant now. The man immediately doubled over and lost the contents of his stomach.

The sound of gagging filled the air as bile dripped into the mud. Kneeling in the dirt, the soldier couldn’t even summon the strength to look up.

“As you are now, you’ll never surpass Rearvart.”

This man, who usually coasted on his natural ability, was likely experiencing this level of exhaustion for the first time in years.

‘Rearvart, however, has likely puked a dozen times from pushing himself too hard.’

Raw talent isn’t the whole story. The cumulative weight of hours spent working every day eventually outweighs natural gifts. Enkrid was the living embodiment of that philosophy—or at least, he strove to be. He had received aid from the Ferryman, but he still valued sweat over destiny.

“Get him out of here.”

The defeated man watched Enkrid’s retreating figure with glazed eyes until he was hauled away.

Next, a fairy lunged at him. Enkrid showed no leniency there either.

“If you think speed is your only requirement, you’ve already lost.”

Every piece of advice he offered was a treasure, provided the recipient was smart enough to listen. Rem’s methods were equally effective, if more sadistic.

“If you lack the will or the fire to fight, what do you do? You suffer.”

Rem’s grin was even more unsettling than Enkrid’s had been. The soldiers looking at him saw the face of a man who genuinely enjoyed the pain of others.

They had been training like this for days. Despite the brutality, not a single man had deserted. These were elite soldiers, handpicked for this task. That fact brought a grim satisfaction to Enkrid.

—

The following afternoon, Enkrid prepared to accompany Crang. The midday sun had evaporated any trace of the previous day’s storm. It was a sweltering day, the kind that made armor feel twice as heavy.

On his person, he carried a deep green mantle. At his left was Dawn Tempering, at his right the shattered remains of Penna, and beneath his tunic, he wore the plate of Balrog. Regardless of his skill level, Enkrid never went anywhere without his best gear—a habit forged during his years as a mercenary.

He had heard rumors of unrest and rebellion.

‘Is an official inspection really the best idea right now?’

The thought crossed his mind, but it wasn’t his place to question the monarch.

As he arrived at the inner fortress to collect Crang, he found the leader of the Royal Guard on one knee, his voice thick with desperation and duty.

“Your Highness! You must take at least twenty Royal Guard members, swap Sir Aisia for Sir Matthew, bring three personal protectors, and add two hundred garrison troops for basic security! The weight of the kingdom rests on your shoulders, not just your own life!”

Enkrid thought the request was a bit over the top, but the bystanders didn’t seem surprised. Matthew and Marcus were also present, listening stoically. It gave Enkrid a glimpse into the dynamic between Crang and his security detail.

‘A relationship of total honesty.’

The Royal Guard were the kind of protectors who would cross a line if it meant keeping the king breathing. They were his ultimate shield.

“I told you, it’s unnecessary,” Crang replied, waving the concern away.

The Captain of the Royal Guard remained rooted to the spot, refusing to budge.

However, Crang was a man of immense stubbornness himself, and he delighted in outmaneuvering people. He was an expert at framing a situation so that his opponent had no choice but to concede.

To that end, Crang pointed directly at the newly arrived Enkrid. His gesture and his smirk radiated absolute certainty.

“Can anyone actually beat him?”

The Captain’s face went pale at the question.

In this entire region, who would be foolish enough to promise a victory against the Commander of the Mad Order of Knights? Even if someone was confident in their own prowess, they were looking at a man who had returned from a literal slaughter of monsters.

The Captain of the Royal Guard shut his mouth tight.

The subtext of Crang’s question was clear: Why bring hundreds of soldiers when you have a living catastrophe standing right there to protect you?