Chapter 668

Chapter 668

“So, which of you bastards feels like dying today?”

As was his custom, Rem threw himself entirely into the unit’s drills. To any outside observer, the scene would have looked less like military instruction and more like systematic torment.

He would pull soldiers out one by one to face him in a duel or force them into lopsided skirmishes. One common trial was a three-on-one bout, where a trio had to survive against three opponents of equal caliber. For the men, that was still preferable to facing Rem’s personal wrath.

Despite his provocative shout, the ranks remained silent. The only thing rising from the men was a palpable, murderous intent that signaled: Anyone who steps forward is getting their teeth kicked in.

Even the chronic complainers had learned to keep their mouths shut. Experience—usually the bloody, painful kind—had taught them that talking back only resulted in a trip to the infirmary before they were forced to drag themselves back to finish the very task they’d tried to avoid.

Cowardly little rats.

Rem reserved his harshest treatment for those types. In his mind, if the training felt like a descent into the underworld, then the chaos of actual war would feel like a stroll through a park.

Those who had stared down death at the edge of Rem’s axe in the yard now displayed a chilling, lethal composure when confronting real threats. When these mercenary-turned-soldiers were deployed outside the city walls to cull monster nests or prowling beasts, they fought like possessed spirits.

It wasn’t just their martial prowess that stood out, either.

None of Rem’s subordinates bothered the local women, and they refrained from the typical looting or banditry common among sellswords. They didn’t even try to swindle extra rations from the kitchens. Though they looked like a pack of thugs, you would be hard-pressed to find a more disciplined or dependable squad in the entire territory.

Consequently, Rem’s reputation climbed with every passing day.

It was common knowledge that they were Rem’s specialized assault force. Because of this, even the southern aristocrats had recently stopped treating Rem as if he were a walking plague. Of course, that didn’t mean anyone was eager to walk up and offer him a warm greeting.

Rem was deeply occupied with his daily routine of “training”—which mostly involved manhandling his squad—when the interruption occurred.

Crunch, crunch.

The sound of heavy, careless footsteps reached his ears first. Whoever it was wasn’t bothering to be quiet. The intruder approached, projecting an obnoxious aura that felt like a deliberate provocation.

“So, you’re the one they call the noble slayer? The silver hair is a dead giveaway. You’re as eyesore as they say, too.”

The stranger delivered the insult without blinking. Rem’s training grounds were situated at the foot of the Pen-Hanil mountain range. While there was a formal yard available, they preferred the rugged terrain beneath the peaks.

Because of this location, monster hordes that were too much for the local scouts rarely made it past them. The idea had originally come from Kraiss, but Rem had to admit the location was perfect for his purposes.

“Monsters and beasts wandering in constantly? Fucking ideal,” he’d said.

And so, the spot was claimed.

The man who had just arrived had descended from the Pen-Hanil heights. He gripped a bare sword in one hand, the steel slick with dark blood.

Rem had picked up on the man’s presence long before he appeared and was already lounging on the side steps of the wooden dais. The rough timber creaked as he shifted his weight. He didn’t even reach for his axe. One arm was draped lazily over the step, his entire demeanor radiating pure disdain.

“What sewer did this ragdoll crawl out of?”

“If that was meant for me, you won’t survive the day,” the man shot back instantly.

His armor was light but clearly of high quality. The blade he held wasn’t standard-issue either. He carried himself like a nobleman, though the savage energy surrounding him was far from courtly.

“Is this guy suicidal?” one of the soldiers whispered. He was a veteran with a jagged scar under his eye, a former mercenary once feared as Mad Axe. People claimed he had calmed down recently, but that was only in comparison to the other lunatics in this unit.

“Hey, if you value your life, get lost. Shoo,” another senior member said, waving him away. They knew all too well that baiting Rem was a recipe for disaster.

“Do you even know where you’re standing? Is this a designated suicide spot or something?”

While the others tossed out insults, one of the more compassionate members stepped forward to warn him.

“Just leave. If you keep acting out here, you’ll actually end up dead. Go find the Holy Battalion. They don’t believe in killing people.”

The Holy Battalion might make you march until you collapsed while carrying boulders, but they wouldn’t end you. This squad was different. Rem’s men didn’t just accept fights; they thrived on them.

Without a word of warning, the man lashed out with his blood-slicked sword. Even Rem hadn’t moved until the blade was already mid-swing. There had been no telegraphing the move at all.

“Get down!”

Whoosh!

The air seemed to fracture as Rem roared. That voice was etched into the very marrow of his men. Instinctively, the soldier near the intruder braced his core. Rem often shouted cues during group brawls, and failing to react usually meant waking up with broken ribs.

So, they listened.

The soldier threw himself backward, more of a frantic collapse than a planned move. He followed Rem’s command to the letter.

Thud!

The axe that had been flying through the air collided with the man’s sword exactly where the soldier’s chest had been a second before. A harsh metallic scream echoed across the clearing.

It wasn’t Rem’s primary weapon; it was a small handaxe he’d hurled. Even so, Rem was a natural at throwing; he could make any object a lethal projectile. Yet, the stranger had parried it with casual ease.

The blade had been on a direct path to disembowel the soldier. The man had tracked the incoming axe, adjusted his swing, and batted it away without losing his footing or his composure.

“Where the hell did this freak show come from?” Rem asked, stepping off the dais. He closed the gap between them in a heartbeat.

The stranger swung again, aiming for Rem’s neck with the same sudden, silent speed. Rem countered with an upward strike of his heavy axe.

One blade descended, the other rose—the two weapons meeting in a violent collision.

Clang! Screeeech!

Sparks erupted where the steel locked. Both men tried to overpower the other, but the force caused them to recoil. Rem dug his heels into the dirt to absorb the impact and immediately launched a follow-up. His arm snapped like a whip, the axe blade cutting a streak of light through the air.

It was a strike that rivaled the Will-infused blows of Enkrid.

Boom!

The axe seemed to skip through space, aimed directly at the man’s head. Or at least, it appeared to connect.

No blood fell. He had hit an afterimage.

The swordsman had pulled his right foot back and ducked low, narrowly avoiding the executioner’s blow. It looked like a stroke of luck.

Yeah, like hell it was.

Rem knew better. The man had dodged with intent. He had timed the movement perfectly. As he ducked, he lunged with his sword.

Well, look at this.

Rem was internally impressed. The man’s instincts were sharp. Most fighters would have tried a wide counter after such a clean dodge, but this guy had gripped the base of his blade and thrust forward in the most direct line possible.

A Half-Sword Thrust. It was a fundamental move, but lethal in the hands of a master.

I’m not ending this in one exchange.

Rem threw his left leg forward in a snap-kick. He intended to dodge the thrust with a simple tilt of his head, tracking the blade’s path perfectly. But the man didn’t overcommit. He evaded the kick and leaped back, bringing his sword up into a high guard.

He was now holding the hilt with both hands.

Rem rested his axe against his shoulder. Their fighting styles were polar opposites.

“Tch. What kind of brat crawled out of the weeds?” Rem muttered. There was something about the man’s stance that got under his skin. It reminded him of a certain someone.

Brown hair, brown eyes. A demeanor as still as a pond but as fierce as a storm. A bizarre individual.

“What do you plan to do with that information?” the man replied.

“I wasn’t actually interested, you arrogant prick.”

And he was a prick, indeed. Rem had no time for pleasantries, especially for some random stranger who showed up with a chip on his shoulder.

The swordsman shifted his weight, stepping forward. He was pouring every ounce of focus into a singular strike—his determination manifesting as Will. He wasn’t projecting it as a crushing pressure, but Rem could feel the density of it regardless. It was the mark of someone who had reached the pinnacle of heavy sword arts.

Rem’s thought was simple: So what?

His axe hummed as he shifted his grip. He was going to shatter whatever parlor tricks this man was trying to pull.

He timed his swing to meet the falling sword. Power traveled from the earth through his legs and hips, erupting with the force of sorcery. Heart of Might engaged instinctively, followed by the sheer momentum of a Giant Cleave.

CRACK!

The shockwave hit like a falling star, the sound deafening.

“They’re both monsters,” a soldier whispered, though the sentiment was shared by everyone watching.

Rem didn’t finish him.

He halted the axe just as the metal grazed the man’s hair. In a blur of motion, he had tilted the blade to deflect the sword’s power while absorbing the remaining vibration. Then, he’d used his free hand to punch the flat of the sword. In that split second of confusion, he’d swept the man’s leg to ruin his balance.

These were all techniques he had polished while sparring with that bastard Ragna after Enkrid had departed.

The final move was resting the heavy head of the axe right on top of the man’s skull. With a knight’s strength, Rem didn’t need to swing—the mere weight of the weapon was enough to split bone.

The stranger was down on one knee, blood seeping from his crushed shoulder plate.

“I’m going to ask you a question. You’d better give me the right fucking answer.”

Rem’s tone turned cold and lethal. This wasn’t the mock-deadly aura he used for training. This was the presence of an executioner. If the usual Rem was a sunrise, this version was the desert sun at noon—merciless and blinding.

If the answer didn’t satisfy him, the axe would go through the man’s head.

“What’s your connection to that wandering idiot?” Rem demanded.

While Rem was occupied with his duel, Audin had encountered a visitor of his own.

The man had blond hair and blue eyes, with a solid, square jaw and a massive frame—though he still wasn’t quite as large as Audin.

“I’ve come looking for someone,” the blond stranger stated.

Audin started to ask how the man had bypassed security but decided against it. Whether he had snuck in or walked through the gates, the common guards wouldn’t have been able to stop someone like him.

Lua Gharne stood at Audin’s side, her large, amphibian eyes moving rhythmically as she scrutinized the newcomer.

“Where did this one crawl out from?”

Her innate ability to see talent was a vital tool for assessing a person’s power level.

I can’t see his limit.

She had watched Enkrid’s progression for a long time and knew his boundaries well. But when it came to others—particularly those at the level of a knight—even her specialized vision couldn’t find the ceiling. She used that blankness as a gauge for how dangerous someone was.

It meant this man was, at the very least, a knight.

“I was told he might be in this area, but I wasn’t certain if he truly was.”

The man was deliberate, choosing his words with extreme care. He didn’t even bother to finish his last thought.

Audin offered a calm, polite smile.

“I believe it is proper manners for a brother to introduce himself first.”

The blond man gave no response to the greeting. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but Audin’s gut told him a sword could be drawn at any second. Naturally, Audin shifted his weight into a combat stance. He planted his feet and let his arms hang loose—prepared to seize and crush anything that came within reach.

“What I actually want to do is confirm a name. Are you Enkrid?” the man asked abruptly.

Rophod and Pell, watching from the wings, had the same thought: Who is this clown?

In this territory, Enkrid was a legend—the Slayer of Demons, the Protector of the Border, the man who had brought the civil war to a close. The rumors were consistent: dark hair, blue eyes, and a face that could charm the women of any race.

“Does that look like the face of a heartbreaker to you? Honestly, look at him. Not a chance in hell,” Pell whispered, his voice carrying. Whether the term was “heartbreaker” or “lady-killer,” it certainly didn’t apply to the man in front of them.

Audin, who was generally pleased with his own rugged looks, could only feel a bit slighted by the comment.

“…Brother Shepherd?”

“If it’s not the truth, it’s not the truth,” Pell said, looking away.

“It isn’t him,” Teresa added immediately, having joined the group. “Most definitely not.”

She spoke with such conviction that there could be no room for doubt.

“Sister Teresa?” Audin asked, his voice flat.

“I’m just making sure there’s no confusion,” she replied.

This is your idea of being helpful? Audin’s expression asked.

“What kind of moron doesn’t recognize our commander? He might not kill women with his charm, but he’ll gladly rip a man in half for a laugh. Watch your mouth. You just insulted Sir Audin,” Rophod cut in.

“So now I dismember people for entertainment?” Audin asked.

“Well, didn’t you? Back in the Holy Infantry, the word was we’d be torn apart if we messed up the drills.”

Audin took a moment to reflect on his past leadership. Was the training flawed? Perhaps it had been too lenient. After all, a truly rigorous schedule leaves no time for the mind to wander to such strange ideas.

The blond stranger blinked slowly. He hadn’t heard these specific rumors. But one thing was undeniable: the mountain of a man before him was a force to be reckoned with.

“That’s irrelevant,” the man said. A new spark lit up his face—an expression of pure anticipation and thrill. “Let’s duel.”

Even before the words were fully out, Audin knew the man was lunging. The pressure of his intent hit first.

The sword sliced through the air, and golden light began to swirl around Audin’s hands. A pair of divine gauntlets, forged from pure holy energy, materialized to catch the incoming blade.

Clang!

The sacred power in the armor clashed with the Will infused into the attacker’s steel. Following his training, Audin activated Divine Penetration, forcing the man to break the engagement to avoid the internal shock.

The man held a traditional one-handed sword, colored in pale blues and whites. Given how it held up against the impact, it was clearly no ordinary blade.

A veteran of the front lines, Audin noted. The man’s movements were polished by real-world slaughter.

The stranger, in turn, was testing Audin’s mettle. Maybe the stories about “ripping men in half” weren’t just tall tales. The strength in that grip and the precision of the defense—it was believable. Audin had just tried to catch the blade and snap it with his bare hands. The stranger had barely retracted it in time.

“This is getting interesting,” the man said.

Audin caught a familiar scent from the stranger’s style. It was as if someone had taken the essence of Enkrid and Ragna and mixed them into a single, formidable fighter.

“My name is Odinkar Zaun.”

“I am Audin Fumrey. I wield the holy light.”

“Then let’s see what you’ve got.”

Zaun—the same name as Ragna. The man identifying as Odinkar raised his weapon. A soft glow rippled along the edge of the sword.

It was Will, concentrated and vibrant. It was a unique manifestation—this man, too, had surpassed a great threshold. He was a true prodigy in his own right.