Chapter 750

Chapter 750

Enkrid’s battalion journeyed toward the south. During their departure, Odd-Eye retreated. It appeared his intention had merely been to offer a parting salute.

Their destination lay in the direction of the Demon Realm, the territory where Balrog likely resided. The entity known as the Fiend of Struggle lacked a permanent residence; thus, they relied on hearsay and travelers’ tales gathered along the path. However, pinpointing him wasn’t an impossible task.

‘Balrog is obsessed with combat.’

Legend held that he lived for the thrill of challenging powerful warriors and reaping their souls. Therefore, the strategy was simple: perform an irresistible invitation in a location he was known to frequent. Enkrid’s tactic involved painting the landscape in black blood and broadcasting a challenge at maximum volume.

Surprisingly, both Kraiss and Abnaier gave their approval, finding the logic sound. While Balrog was a figure of myth, their cross-referenced intelligence confirmed behavioral traits that aligned with these facts. The plan had merit. If they summoned him for a duel, he would arrive, provided the “song” was loud enough to reach him.

The secure corridors maintained by the Border Guard had grown significantly, necessitating passage through several security stations.

“Steel Wall!”

A thunderous salute echoed. This was the Steel Wall outpost, the final garrison of the Knight of the Steel Wall and the gateway to the untamed lands beyond. Enkrid acknowledged the soldiers with a casual motion and continued forward.

Among the onlookers, the outpost leader—a man of some intuition—tilted his head in confusion.

“Are we launching an invasion?”

The veteran soldier at his side gave a dismissive grunt.

“No reports of mobilization, Commander.”

The leader was equally in the dark. Furthermore, there wasn’t a visible adversary to justify such a movement. Recently, Enkrid’s Mad Order of Knights had earned a reputation as the Maze of the Borderlands. This peculiar title existed for a specific reason:

‘They consume everything that ventures into their path.’

Indeed. They rarely sought out conflict, yet trouble always seemed to find them. Whether it was the cultists of the Grey God or the Black Blade mercenaries, or even the forces of Count Molsen during the internal conflict—the Mad Order had decimated them all.

“Weren’t there rumors about the trade city getting arrogant?”

The commander was a fan of information; he believed gossip was both a survival tool and a pastime.

“Do you think they’re going to raze it?”

A force of that caliber could easily dismantle a city with centuries of history.

“They aren’t even heading toward the city,” the younger soldier noted. Even to a novice, the sight of the entire group moving in unison was unsettling. Were they truly bound for a theater of war?

“True… I suppose not.”

The southern territories had been quiet lately, with aggression from that sector reaching an all-time low. There were whispers of turmoil in the capital—could this be related?

‘Maybe they’re off to execute some aristocrats?’

The silver-haired killer known as the Noble Butcher was among them, after all.

‘No, that’s far-fetched.’

He dismissed the thought. No one truly knew the objective. Yet, the mere sight of them traveling together was enough to make anyone tremble. The commander watched the group shrink into the distance, his eyes fixed on the dark-haired figure leading them. If Venzance, the local garrison chief, was to be believed, that man had once been a mere grunt.

‘Ridiculous.’

The claim seemed impossible. From the height of the watchtower, the view was expansive. He watched as they merged with the horizon, the setting sun casting their shadows long across the earth. They were now a power capable of shifting the world’s foundations just by taking a step.

The commander’s intuition was about to be proven correct.

In the trade city, the mayor was consumed by anxiety regarding the Mad Order’s activities. Why had they mobilized so suddenly?

‘Is this a display of power?’

Was it a warning to stop their political maneuvering? Previously, the city had avoided violence through bureaucracy and excuses, but these knights didn’t strike him as the type to respect red tape. Could the city’s elite Ten Mercenaries hold them off? Was there a chance for a peaceful resolution?

The mercenary leader happened to be present for the discussion. The mayor looked at him, his silent stare begging for a professional opinion. The captain, a scarred veteran of countless campaigns, was a man who had seen the worst of humanity. Even under the agony of having his nails ripped out by enemies, he had never cracked, earning him the title of “the Indomitable Mercenary.” He was the paragon of resilience, second only to the Eastern Mercenary King in the hearts of his peers.

“Give up.”

That was his assessment.

“…I beg your pardon?”

“Surrender immediately. If we engage them, we all perish.”

He was dead serious. This man, a living monument to defiance, spoke with total conviction. He slammed his fist onto the table to emphasize the gravity of his words.

“Surrender!”

His shout brought an end to the deliberations. There would be no display of “backbone.” Although the Mad Order wasn’t even heading their way, the merchant guilds—who had intended to manipulate the Stone Road for profit—yielded instantly. Such was the terrifying weight of the “Madmen” name.

Kraiss, managing the Border Guard’s logistics, was perplexed when the trade city suddenly offered total cooperation, including the establishment of a financial hub. He wondered if they were plotting something.

The truth soon became clear.

‘The Captain just has to walk outside and everyone loses their minds.’

Leona Lockfried was delighted. The city’s clandestine schemes had been a thorn in her side, and now the problem had solved itself. And the ripples were only just beginning to spread.

“We dispute his right to lead!”

By ancient decree, the Pope was chosen within the sacred walls of Legion. That was the established protocol. The election required the total, unanimous consent of every high priest in the city. It wasn’t a simple majority; the process could stall for years without a unified voice.

The previous Pope had vanished, leaving a vacuum of power and a scarred city. With the rise of Grey God cults, the situation was dire. Legion needed a firm hand.

The primary proposal was simple:

“We must appoint a successor.”

Initially, there was a push to bring in someone from the Empire who possessed divine gifts. The Imperial Church remained a powerhouse, and though the Empire wasn’t ruled by religion, its clerics held massive influence. Since holy power was a tangible force, anyone who could wield it could claim a seat at the table.

“This is the most logical path.”

Holy Knight Overdeer suspected the proposer was an Imperial agent, but compared to the threat of demons, political subversion was a minor sin. He couldn’t execute someone just for having Imperial sympathies.

“If we wait for a high priest to make a move, we’ll be waiting for a century.”

Spy or not, the speaker was a veteran of Legion. Most of the truly dangerous heretics had already been purged. The agent had read the room: the high priests were locked in a stalemate, each being a leader of their own sub-sect. For one to rise above the others, they would need to prove they were extraordinary—possessing a divinity that surpassed even the holiest of saints.

There was one such individual, but he served the God of War and had severed ties with Legion long ago. Even if he were present, the followers of War had sworn off internal church politics.

Overdeer didn’t try to untangle the political knot. He was a Holy Knight—a weapon, not a politician. However, he maintained the right to suggest a candidate, which was exactly what he had been planning.

“If the Goddess of Fortune provides opportunity, the Goddess of the Scales ensures the balance remains true.”

Overdeer’s voice commanded respect. Even the high priests listened. He had already purged a traitor from their own ranks once before. Some of the city’s elites looked at him with dread; if Overdeer chose to, he could seize control of the entire hierarchy. The Holy Knights were currently at the peak of their power and prestige. However, with the God of War’s followers watching, a military coup remained out of the question.

“The God of the Scales is impartial, but always just.”

One high priest voiced his agreement. While each sect had its own leader, the Pope of Legion was the sovereign of the Holy City. Essentially, the King.

“The Scales have chosen this humble servant to speak. On behalf of the Holy Knights, I nominate a candidate.”

Overdeer formally introduced Noah.

Immediately, a cardinal representing one of the high priests challenged him.

“How can a man devoid of divine power be fit for the throne?”

Overdeer reiterated his own oath of fealty and then revealed his ultimate argument.

“I present to you the Ragged Saint.”

The blind elder who had raised Audin stepped forward, his staff clicking against the stone as he bowed to Noah.

“Divine will is the final judge, but if my endorsement carries weight, I give it freely.”

The old man had once been the Pope of Legion himself. Few remembered, and those who did remained silent. Still, a reputation like his was legendary. For now, he spoke only as the Ragged Saint.

Noah remained quiet. Speeches wouldn’t move these men, but the effort was necessary. Could he truly win their unanimous support? Even Noah doubted himself.

‘Am I truly the one?’

His only original ambition had been to care for the fatherless. He wanted to give children who might have become criminals a life of devotion and peace. It was a small, quiet dream. Could he handle a crown?

“Just these two? I respect the knights, but who else stands with him?” a high priest demanded.

Overdeer was prepared for this.

“The Sovereign of Naurillia grants his support.”

An official endorsement from the King of Naurillia was presented, yet some still grumbled. Then, a report arrived that shook the foundations of the continent.

The Mad Order of Knights was marching. Their destination? Legion.

“Is it true you have ties to the commander of the Mad Order?” a high priest asked Noah during the session.

Noah couldn’t find the words. The news of Enkrid’s movement hit him like a physical blow. He felt as though Enkrid was standing right there, reprimanding him for his hesitation. In his mind’s eye, Enkrid’s image appeared.

The illusionary Enkrid spoke bluntly.

“Why are you talking like a fool? A small dream? A humble wish? Tell me then—what qualifies as a big dream?”

Noah had no answer.

“Dreams don’t have sizes, Noah,” the vision continued.

Noah had lost sight of that truth.

“Well? Do you know him or not?” the high priest pressed.

Noah’s vision cleared. He returned to the present.

“He is my friend.”

The room went silent as a high priest swallowed hard. The Mad Order’s reputation for brutality was even more exaggerated outside the Borderlands. Their record of destruction was unparalleled.

“Are they coming to wage war on us?” the Ragged Saint whispered. He knew better, but the threat was a powerful silencer for the opposition.

“For what purpose?” a cardinal asked.

Overdeer added a final touch of pressure.

“The Apostle of the Grey God struck them first. The fault lies with us. I suggest we prepare to receive them.”

The Commander of the Holy Knights was away, and Legion was leaderless. Someone had to take charge. All eyes turned to Noah.

The Holy Knights would only move on his command. The King of Naurillia backed him. The Ragged Saint stood by him. And he was the personal friend of the continent’s most feared commander. Even without the Mad Order’s march, his ascension was becoming inevitable.

“I will take it. That seat belongs to me.”

For the first time, Noah displayed the iron will required for the office. And so, the new Pope was decided.

At that same moment, Enkrid was in high spirits, discussing the finer points of the blade while carving through monsters alongside his knights.