Chapter 746

Chapter 746

I will transform into a knight. I will shield those who stand in my shadow. I will eradicate the Demon Realm.

Looking upward from those vows, one could perceive the core of Enkrid’s true longing.

“A simple existence.”

A life defined by tranquility, woven together with moments of joy.

It’s the sight of a fruit merchant offering a friendly greeting, or the warmth of someone roasting tubers over a fire to share with a famished youth. It is a nimble-fingered waitress scolding children with a fond clip to the ear while she cares for them. It is the return of travelers carrying trinkets for their kin. There are sorrows, certainly—but they meet each morning with a grin.

Indeed, this was the specific day Enkrid craved above all else. The definitive tomorrow he had envisioned throughout his entire life.

In that case… could he claim to have lived that day already?

To a degree, yes.

So, would it not suffice to merely defend what lies within his own borders? To ensure this cycle of days continues without end?

It would be enough.

Is there any compelling reason to push those borders outward?

There is none.

Enkrid tuned his heart to the soft answer surfacing from within. It wasn’t a mistake.

“Indeed. This is the prize you have always sought.”

The Ferryman’s tone was thick with conviction—absolute and transparent. Furthermore, the Ferryman provided a reprieve.

“For the time being, this ‘now’ shall persist. You are free to decide whenever you wish.”

Essentially: do nothing for now. Simply savor it.

When Enkrid awoke, he moved through the day like any other. The Ferryman’s promise held true. The present he so deeply desired endured. His drills were satisfying, and the rush of improving his skills remained constant.

“Your conditioning continues. Is it not a pleasure?”

The Ferryman appeared in the darkness of night to inquire. Truly, it was.

Not every gain vanished just because the day reset. Even after the cycle of death, the physical memory of Enkrid’s training and the wisdom he had earned stayed with him.

Was this also a boon from the Ferryman?

Was he supposed to find contentment in this state?

His ambition was never to wander through treacherous peaks for eternity. It was to live out a quiet day in a cozy, welcoming residence.

“Is everyone occupied?”

The following afternoon, Enkrid questioned Audin as he strolled by.

“Ragna has been quite focused lately. In fact, everyone has been remarkably steadfast.”

Rem was preoccupied with drilling the platoon. Ragna was dedicated to his blade, leading ten warriors in constant practice.

Pell, who had been lingering nearby, chimed in.

“What do you need? Shall I summon them?”

Pell served as Enkrid’s right hand, just as Rophod served Ragna. Even after their elevation to knighthood, those dynamics remained. In Ragna’s case, Rophod was essential for managing the rank and file. As for Pell, he simply preferred to remain at Enkrid’s side.

“I wish to see them by nightfall.”

One could easily label Enkrid as the commander of the Mad Order of Knights and the unofficial sovereign of Border Guard. Certain oblivious aristocrats even whispered about him in the dark, wondering if he intended to carve out a private kingdom within the territory.

Enkrid himself cared little for such rumors. Regardless, he rarely summoned his followers through formal authority. He had never called them together in a moment of stillness like this; usually, his commands were forged in the chaos of combat.

That had been the way of things since his time as a squad leader.

As Pell absorbed Enkrid’s request, a sudden chill raced down his arms.

“Is something wrong?”

His voice remained steady. His expression was as it always was. There was no visible reason for such a reaction.

Pell glanced toward Audin, who stood there with a smile, lost in prayer.

“O Great Father, do You require my service? Are You speaking through this soul?”

What on earth is he talking about?

Pell pushed the thought aside and set off to assemble the group. He would save Rem for last.

“As you wish.”

Disregarding the instinctive dread pooling in his gut, Pell departed.

For the past several days, Ragna had been dedicated to his sword from the first light of dawn until the stars appeared.

He wasn’t refining some legendary secret art or engaging in playful duels. Instead, following the rigid traditions of Northern longsword doctrine, he performed the fundamentals over and over—stances, vertical drops, lunges, diagonal sweeps, single-handed thrusts, pivots, and winding strikes.

It mirrored Pell’s own daily routine.

“A sturdy base is the only path to the summit.”

That was the core of Enkrid’s philosophy. Through observation, Pell had internalized a great deal of this wisdom. In truth, the entire company had.

“Knighthood has tiers?”

Infusing the Will into a strike—that is the mark of a novice. Weaving one’s own character into the steel—that is the path of the intermediate. Stepping beyond the boundaries of form entirely—that is the realm of the master.

“And there is a peak beyond that?”

What did it look like?

To become a master of change? To be as fluid as a circle one moment and as sharp as a needle the next? To transform without hesitation?

Pell had once felt a sense of total mastery. That intoxicating realization that anything was possible, a feeling that saturated his very marrow. It was as if he could reach out and graze the sun, or swing his blade and cleave the horizon of a far-off peak.

Drunk on that power, one pours out every drop of Will until they collapse in a heap.

Pell had known that feeling. Only, for him, the mountain was not Pen-Hanil. And the sun did not hang in the sky.

“Commander.”

To Pell, the sun, the mountain, and Enkrid were one and the same.

That was why Pell had challenged Enkrid—and been utterly crushed for his arrogance.

A weaker soul might have broken in that moment, wallowing in the shadows of loss. Some might have laughed at the notion of grading knighthood like a schoolboy’s lessons.

“I finally reached the rank of knight, and you tell me I’ve barely started the climb?”

The pampered “Greenhouse Knights” of the Empire would likely have recoiled. Pell, however, did not. In fact, none of the Mad Order of Knights felt that way.

“I can reach higher.”

The knowledge that there were heights yet to be conquered only fueled his resolve. If he had already reached the end, life would have been hollow.

Now, he understood why his mind was drifting.

Ragna’s solitary training emitted a pressure as solid as a stone wall.

“Why does he feel so dangerous?”

It felt like stumbling upon the den of a massive lycanthrope pack that had been stalking prey. The conflict hadn’t begun—but the storm was gathering. The season of sharpening steel on stone was returning.

“Ah.”

It clicked for Pell then. Every one of them was readying themselves for something.

Fwoosh!

A scorching slipstream trailed Ragna’s sword with every swing. Could that heat take on a physical shape if he pushed it far enough? It seemed impossible—but if anyone could manifest it, it was Ragna.

“What are you loitering here for?”

Rophod, who had been drilling nearby, stepped forward to ask.

“I have a message to deliver.”

Pell could practically taste the lethal intent radiating from Ragna. He wasn’t killing time; he was honing his edge to a razor.

Why?

There was only one answer. There was only one man in Border Guard or the Mad Order who dictated the pulse of the group.

“Gathering this evening.”

“Understood.”

Rophod didn’t need further explanation. He didn’t ask who had initiated it. Only the commander had the authority to summon Ragna.

Next, Pell sought out Jaxon, heading toward a quiet establishment known for tea and sweets. He was met by a striking blonde woman.

“I always feel on edge when I walk through these doors.”

The vague unease he used to feel had sharpened into clarity.

“Two hidden on the roof.”

One beneath the counter. Hidden observers were everywhere.

“More than you realize. So stay on your best behavior.”

Jaxon materialized before Pell even saw him. He hadn’t felt a presence—but suddenly Jaxon was standing right behind him.

With a start, Pell turned to see Jaxon watching him with narrowed eyes. The moment their gazes locked—those cold, detached eyes—Pell felt a dozen other eyes pinning him from the shadows.

If I start a fight here, I’m finished.

Naturally, there was no fight. But it felt like walking into a massive, invisible web.

“I pushed myself too hard lately; I’m having trouble masking my presence. What do you want?”

Jaxon’s casual tone broke the tension.

What was that sensation? It felt like pressure, yet it was different.

He had wrapped his five senses in his Will, casting them out like a net. It was a technique that moved past sight and sound into a realm of pure sensory detection. That was the source of Pell’s familiarity.

Jaxon had utilized that same method on the battlefields of Azpen to hunt down enemies with his mind. Now, he had mastered it.

“The Captain has called a meeting for tonight.”

Jaxon gave a curt nod. The strange aura surrounding him vanished instantly. Everything returned to the mundane.

As Pell turned to leave, the blonde woman chirped,

“Be careful out there, little shepherd~”

Pell offered a distracted nod and walked out, but he froze after only a few paces.

“I’ve never met her before.”

How did she know his former life as a shepherd? He hadn’t spoken of it.

He knew she was Jaxon’s companion. Did Jaxon—the stoic, silent Jaxon—really spend his nights whispering secrets in bed? It didn’t fit.

Of course, that wasn’t it. Geor Dagger wasn’t merely a collective of killers; it was an intelligence network. It would be scandalous if they didn’t know every detail of the elite warriors in their own backyard.

Regardless, the Mad Order of Knights was legendary. They had been the center of multiple world-shaking events. Stopping the civil war, earning the title of Demon Slayer—that was enough to make them household names.

In Naurillia, many believed that if the Mad Order joined the stagnant southern front, the war would end in a week. Though, of course, that was just talk. Wars were rarely won by the opinions of commoners.

At that same hour, Rem was deep in the wilderness, hunting and skinning beasts.

When Pell tracked him down, the man was facing five trolls.

“They’ve got him boxed in.”

The trolls were standing in a deliberate ring. A formation. Monsters could be surprisingly tactical, especially trolls. They knew how to exploit their own healing abilities. While they lacked the strategic depth of Frokk, they knew how to trap a single human.

Each of the five trolls gripped a massive wooden club. Where they obtained such things was a mystery, but it didn’t matter.

In the center of the trap, Rem’s lips curled into a nasty grin. Looking through the gap in a troll’s ribs, Pell caught that look.

Then, the axe sang.

Rem’s weapon never collided with the clubs. It darted between them like a fish cutting through a current. After a series of blurs, five troll heads hung in the air for a split second. No beast survives decapitation—they were finished.

Stepping out from the circle of corpses bleeding black sludge, Rem spat:

“There’s no such thing as being cornered. There is always a way out. You die the moment you admit defeat, you idiots.”

His training philosophy was well-known. Even those who considered themselves ruthless admitted his methods were on another level.

“Hah!”

Even the acknowledgments from his men sounded like battle cries.

“Apologies for staining you with this filth.”

Rem grumbled to his weapon, then motioned to Pell.

“Gathering tonight.”

He didn’t specify who called it. Everyone knew.

“You should have led with that.”

Rem showed his teeth in a predatory smile. Pell felt a wave of discomfort. Rem’s aura had mutated—his presence now weighed down the entire clearing.

“We’re all going to die, Boss!” one of the soldiers yelled.

Rem’s smile didn’t falter.

“Just deal with it. This won’t kill you.”

If Pell felt breathless, how were the common soldiers surviving it? But it wasn’t his problem. He wasn’t the one training them.

Even Enkrid’s personal retinue was likely enduring their own brand of hell right now.

“Until tonight, then.”

Pell bowed slightly and departed.

It was the heart of summer, and the twilight lingered. As the orange glow faded, they ignited the central fire.

Crackle, pop.

They roasted meat over the flames and set out spreads of fruit and salted beef. Kraiss had provided the supplies. Abnaier joined them as well. Even the fairy and the witch were present, despite Pell not having told them.

Enkrid looked at the assembled group, his voice as steady as ever.

“We are going to hunt Balrog.”

The statement was monumental, yet no one tried to talk him out of it. Not a single face showed shock.

Frokk was the first to nod.

“I have waited a long time for this.”

In truth, Pell felt the same. Power had been placed in his hands, and it would be a lie to say he didn’t want to use it. He wanted to find his ceiling and break through it. If Pell felt that way, he knew the rest did too.

“I’m ready,” Rem said, his grin returning.

Ragna stood up and checked his blades.

“Where are you going, brother?” Audin asked.

Ragna looked at Enkrid and answered simply,

“Balrog. Are we not leaving?”

The sun hadn’t even set on the day. They didn’t have a location for the beast. How could they go?

“I will lead the way,” Ragna declared with certainty.

“You know the location?” Rem asked.

“If we keep walking, we will find it.”

Ragna’s conviction was absolute.

Enkrid held up a hand.

“Not this moment.”

His promise to hunt Balrog was real. But not this second.

It was a vow—a sign that he would not stay trapped in this comfortable, repeating “today” forever.