Chapter 810

Chapter 810

When Naurillia purged the nearby brigands and predatory beasts to establish secure trade paths, their primary focus was on domestic stability. The reasoning was sound: if the perils beyond the city walls were neutralized, the interior had to be just as protected to encourage a steady flow of travelers and commerce.

To achieve this, the crown turned its attention to the impoverished districts.

“They refer to that as the king’s bread,” Marcus noted.

It was a straightforward concept: by curbing the extravagance of the royal banquet table, one could feed a hundred starving citizens. However, those who actually implemented such a policy were few and far between.

Crang was the exception.

He redirected the funds meant for his personal meals to provide sustenance for the destitute. In the beginning, he distributed free loaves of bread once a day. He organized the cooking of hearty stews and sourced affordable textiles to clothe the naked. Once he had gained the trust of the slums through these acts of mercy, he introduced the element of labor. Kraiss nodded, finding the strategy familiar.

“He didn’t simply hand out charity. The city was desperate for manpower.”

There were ramparts to mend, new structures to erect, and defensive outposts to be established on the city’s fringes—tasks requiring many hands. Thus, the poor were recruited into the workforce. Those physically unfit for heavy construction were tasked with communal cooking. Children were taken into royal academies, where they were educated and sheltered.

Every worker’s wage and every child’s progress was meticulously documented. Effectively, whether by design or happy accident, this initiative did more than just shrink the slums; it established a framework for total oversight.

The very essence of the slums began to transform. Crang had risked the royal treasury, and the gamble paid off for the citizenry, the merchant class, and the laborers alike. Consequently, the various factions that had long used the slums as a base for their illicit operations were forced to retreat.

Informants and agents from the Northern Empire and the Southern kingdoms—shadowy figures who had been rooted in the slums like stubborn weeds—found their influence withering away.

“Usually, the most capable among the poor resort to theft or mugging. But if you diminish the number of people living in poverty, what follows? Exactly—by overseeing them, you cut off the source of future criminals,” Enkrid remarked, summarizing the dialogue between Kraiss and Marcus.

“So, once the criminal syndicates and the slums were brought under heel, the foreign operatives lost their hiding spots. They retreated into the high-society salons instead. Now that they’ve embedded themselves into organized groups and started using coercion to extort, the roots of the problem have become tangled and obscured. Is that the gist of it?”

“…The commander’s intuition is as sharp as ever,” Kraiss admitted with a look of respect.

“It isn’t that impressive. You basically laid out the map for me,” Enkrid replied nonchalantly.

“No, I disagree,” Kraiss said, shaking his head before taking a slow sip of his tea. Marcus then steered the conversation toward their actual objective.

“That being the case…” Marcus paused, rubbing his cheek with the slight hesitation of a man making a difficult request. “We have a specific need to infiltrate those salons.”

“…”

Enkrid gave him a silent, questioning look that asked: *And why are you telling me this?*

“To deliver a bit of divine retribution to those who have tainted the reputation of the salons,” Kraiss murmured from the side.

—

The operatives embedded within the salons were clever. They functioned in isolated cells, manipulating the secrets and vulnerabilities of those around them so that no one dared trust a neighbor. It was precisely the tactic Kraiss had mentioned: keeping the nobility at each other’s throats so they never had the focus to challenge the throne.

This made it incredibly difficult to infiltrate under the guise of an aristocrat. Marcus had attempted it dozens of times, and even Andrew had tried his hand, but they only managed to snag minor players. Every false identity they sent in was eventually sniffed out.

Attempting to send Royal Guards disguised as common soldiers was equally futile; the enemy was too savvy for that. In this regard, Enkrid was perhaps the least suited candidate for the job. His physical appearance was impossible to hide, and the reputation of the Mad Order of Knights was far too distinct.

In the language of combat, the adversary was like a warrior encased in impenetrable plate armor and a heavy shield. One might assume the solution was to hack through the defense, but—

The goal was to strike the person inside without destroying the shield itself.

That was the source of the frustration. False personas were constantly compromised, and there were few among the existing nobility who were fit for the task. Yet, Marcus looked for a gap. No matter how sturdy the armor, it always possessed joints where a precise blade could find purchase.

*Sip.*

Enkrid held a mouthful of amber liquid while sitting in one of Naurillia’s most prominent salons. Compared to the potent spirits of his homeland, this was merely a lingering, bitter aftertaste. It likely felt even worse because he had purposely ordered something mediocre. It was the kind of experience people described as “tarnishing the palate.”

Enkrid was a magnet for attention no matter where he stood. For a mission involving stealth, he was a terrible choice. Especially considering his companions.

“Hmph. It’s drinkable, but it lacks soul.”

Rem was sitting with him. A gray-haired barbarian from the West, Rem would stand out even on the busiest city street. And then there was the golden-haired fairy.

“When we visit the fairy city, shall we share some Leaf Liquor, my fiancé?” she asked with her usual cheer.

Possessing a beauty that seemed to belong to another realm, she glowed like a centerpiece among the various lamps of the salon. Though the establishment employed many high-status hostesses, none could compare to her. Every person in the room, regardless of gender, was staring.

Her aura of delicate grace only made the effect more pronounced—her complexion was pale, her presence appearing fragile after she had sustained internal injuries during a recent clash. If the onlookers knew this same fairy had once shattered the crystal of a Balrog with a single strike, their gazes might have held more caution. To the uninitiated, however, she was simply a breathtaking, if frail, beauty.

“I would also like to offer you the traditional spirits of Frokk,” the fairy added.

With Frokk accompanying her, the group was the undisputed center of attention. From the moment they crossed the threshold, every eye had been locked onto them. Despite this, they settled into their seats with total composure, ordered their drinks, and started their meal.

“It isn’t brewed from insects, is it?” Rem questioned.

“You know it well. It is a very unique vintage.”

“Damn, now I’m actually interested in the flavor.”

Rem was far more of a connoisseur of food and drink than his rugged exterior suggested.

Enkrid, scanning the room with feigned boredom, met the gaze of a man with a balding head and a protruding belly.

“Hm.”

The man gave an awkward cough and broke eye contact. He shuffled toward the bar to strike up a conversation with a woman sitting by herself. Enkrid watched idly as the woman giggled behind a fan, the man laughing along. They appeared to be enjoying each other’s company. The woman had a large frame, but her features possessed a certain aristocratic elegance.

Because his group was already the focus of the room, Enkrid could feel the sharp edges of hostile scrutiny. The stares were a mixture of suspicion, envy, dread, and fascination. A normal man’s skin might have crawled under such a heavy atmosphere, but Enkrid remained unmoved.

*“Are you dreaming of becoming a knight?”*

*“Do you really think you can wipe out the Demon Realm?”*

Enkrid had long ago learned to ignore the mocking glares of those who doubted his path. At least here, none of the looks were filled with contempt. If there was one dominant emotion in the room, it was fear.

Not that it occupied Enkrid’s mind. Even here in the luxury of the salon, he was the same man who stood on the training grounds—completely absorbed in the philosophy of the blade.

*Is it truly possible to bypass the shield and the armor to strike only what lies within?*

He wondered if such a feat could be mastered. His mind, regardless of the setting, always drifted back to his martial craft. On the surface, it seemed impossible. But then he remembered:

*Audin’s arsenal included a technique known as Divine Penetration.*

Specifically, among the Monks—those martial practitioners who reached the pinnacle of their craft—there existed a skill that could bypass physical armor to strike the internal organs directly. Enkrid had once felt the pressure of blocking such a strike from the High Priest of the Cult Annihilation Order.

*What if I could replicate that?*

A specific mercenary technique from the Valen-style suddenly came to mind.

*The deceptive bludgeon.*

It was a move where the user feigned a slash with the edge, only to rotate the wrist at the last second to strike with the flat of the sword. It was a dangerous move; without immense forearm and wrist strength, one could easily tear their own tendons. Enkrid had always respected the Valen-style for its commitment to the basics. And that basic rule was: if you cannot cut or pierce, you must strike. A strike sends the shock through the exterior into the core.

His thoughts began to weave together.

*In that dream, when I struck down the titan…*

To a spectator, it had appeared to be a simple cut of immense power and skill.

*But it wasn’t.*

The golden-haired man, one of the Ferrymen, had utilized Indules every time he swung his weapon. But it was far from simple.

*“You are a quick study,”* the Ferryman’s voice seemed to whisper in the back of his mind.

*Indules can be infused with one’s Will.*

It was a sudden epiphany, striking him in the most unlikely of environments. Balrog’s attacks had been far more devastating than his own—faster, more violent, more powerful. There were many factors, but the way he channeled his Will was undoubtedly the key.

*The Demon Realm.*

His encounter with Balrog had taught him a vital lesson. To truly eradicate the demons and dismantle their realm, he needed to ascend to a new level of mastery.

He was a knight who spoke of conflict and finality. Enkrid’s ambition had not wavered. Simply achieving the rank of knight was not the destination.

*Clink.*

The sound of ice hitting glass pulled his attention back to the present. A man stood before them, dressed in a purple velvet coat, a ruffled white shirt, and tailored pants, leaning on a cane.

Everyone at the table, including Rem, knew that the cane concealed a thin, sharp blade. It was a swordstick—a hidden tool for self-defense. Since carrying a full-sized sword openly in a salon was prohibited, such weapons were commonplace. While the staff conducted searches at the entrance, those determined to hide a weapon always found a loophole.

However, no one was foolish enough to spill blood here without cause. To even enter the salon required a certain level of social standing. Enkrid and the members of the Mad Order were the exceptions; the guards didn’t have the authority to stop them, and no one in the capital was mad enough to cross a knight.

Regardless, the swordstick itself wasn’t the threat. Enkrid and Rem could clear the room with their bare hands if they chose.

This was why some of the nobles flinched when they looked at Rem. Rem seemed to take pleasure in their discomfort, pointedly tearing into a roasted duck leg with his hands, despite being perfectly capable of using proper utensils. It was a deliberate, somewhat perverse display.

Most of the tension in the room radiated from this western barbarian. To the onlookers, Enkrid was just as formidable—the Butcher of Monsters, the man who moved through hordes of beasts as if they were nothing. Even the hired mercenaries acting as bodyguards for the nobles didn’t dare meet his eyes. His reputation was simply too overwhelming.

The looks of genuine interest mostly came from other warriors. A few, those obsessed with the way of the sword, clearly wanted to approach him to seek advice, though they were kept at bay by Rem’s presence.

“What do you want?”

Rem acknowledged the newcomer with surprising civility. For him, not throwing a punch was a sign of goodwill. Still, the man swallowed hard.

“I have come to express my gratitude for such a prestigious visit—by presenting a bottle of fine wine to you, friend of the king.”

The man had carefully selected one of Enkrid’s many titles. Between “The Civil War Ender,” “Demon Slayer,” and “Heartbreaker,” he had chosen the most diplomatic one. He was the proprietor of the establishment.

At his signal, an assistant stepped forward and placed a bottle on their table. The salon was dimly lit by enchanted lamps that mimicked magical artifacts. They lacked true resonance, suggesting they were the work of a mediocre craftsman, but they were still expensive. Having over sixteen of them scattered around was a clear testament to the salon’s prosperity.

The walls were finished to resemble ancient ruins, giving the place an atmospheric, crumbling beauty. The furniture was decadent, and the air was thick with a dreamlike haze. Patrons throughout the room were exhaling plumes of white smoke.

The younger people present were mostly staff or hostesses; the clientele itself skewed older. There were three legendary salons in the capital, and this one was known as the Kalderan Ruins, named after the site where the great war of old had commenced.

Rem pulled the cork and took a deep breath of the wine’s aroma. His senses were sharp—not quite at the level of a beastman, but close. Enkrid wondered briefly how Dunbakel was faring. Since there had been no news of his passing, he assumed the man was still among the living.

“Hm.”

Rem didn’t complain, which meant the scent was pleasing. He poured a glass and knocked it back.

“Are you having any?”

He glanced at Enkrid. For Rem to offer before finishing the bottle himself was high praise for the vintage. Enkrid shook his head; he had no thirst for it. Shinar’s condition prohibited her from drinking, and Lua Gharne declined as well. Rem smirked and proceeded to fill his glass repeatedly, drinking with steady determination.

The man in the purple velvet coat visibly relaxed. The guards and staff behind him mirrored his relief. Enkrid understood exactly why he was there; he was playing his part in the mission.

“So—these spies from the south. Are you counted among them?”

That was the question Enkrid put to him.