Chapter 811

Chapter 811

The proprietor of the establishment became a statue. The sycophantic words he had prepared died in his throat. His personal protector gulped audibly, and his servant’s legs began to shake. A heavy tension rippled through the room, causing the nearby patrons to recoil.

‘Infiltrators? From the South? Who made such a claim? The Demon Knight? The hero who ended the internal conflict? The one who slaughters demons?’

The gravity of an accusation shifted based on the prestige of the accuser. Currently, Enkrid possessed one of the most authoritative voices in the realm of Naurillia. The owner, his features contorted in a mix of offense and terror, faltered out a response.

“…I–I beg your pardon?”

Enkrid concluded the man was no double agent. No matter how seasoned the performer, a person could not mask every visceral impulse—certainly not a commoner who lacked the discipline of a warrior’s training.

“Choose your next words poorly, and I will crush your skull.”

Standing by his side, Rem reinforced the intimidation. The owner’s mind raced through the titles associated with the man: The Slayer of Nobles. The one who harvests aristocratic heads. Involuntarily, the man’s grip tightened on the handle of his concealed swordstick. Though he maintained connections with several high-ranking lords, not a single one moved to defend him now. In a moment of true peril, one could only rely on their own strength.

The proprietor went silent, meticulously filtering his thoughts. The owner of the Kalderan Ruins Salon had once been a simple merchant before purchasing a minor barony; he was pragmatic enough to know that antagonizing a knight was suicide.

“If you unsheathe that, you’re a dead man. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Frokk spoke up, attempting to be persuasive—yet to the listener, it felt like a final warning. Frokk’s raspy tone was naturally ominous, and the light caught the sheen of his oily skin. He looked every bit the seasoned killer. By that standard, Rem was the most terrifying of the group.

The owner’s internal monologue was a whirlwind of panic.

‘Is this how it ends? Have I lost the crown’s favor? Is that why? But why deploy a knight for someone like me? It’s illogical.’

His extremities trembled, and his teeth chattered.

“N–n–no. I am no such thing.”

“Y–y–yeah, we can see that,” Rem teased, mimicking the man’s stutter. He did it partly to provoke him and partly out of disgust for what the man represented. This owner had climbed to his position through black-market dealings; the kingdom’s intelligence confirmed his shady history.

However, the man now looked after a group of dependents, including impoverished children. He was nurturing bright and gifted youths for his own enterprise, which was a point in his favor. He had also bought goodwill with the Church through heavy tithing and had donated significantly to the state’s educational funds.

Kraiss’s previous assessment came to mind:

“If he has invested that much krona back into the system, we let him be. His greatest sins are selling Eastern artifacts at inflated prices and having a dark history. That is the extent of it.”

The man remained oblivious—he believed he had cheated death through luck—but in reality, he was safe because of the effort he put into the salon’s operation. Kraiss saw value in that.

“Keep your path straight,” Rem commanded.

The owner nodded frantically. A heavy quiet descended upon the room.

“You lot are truly ghastly,” a woman whispered, her figure cinched tight by a corset beneath her ornate gown.

“Silence!”

The stout nobleman next to her raised a warning finger in a panic. He had no desire to draw the attention of the Reaper’s entourage.

“It seems we have dampened the festivities.”

Enkrid’s gaze swept over the lord and the lady before he turned to depart.

“I will be observing.”

Rem grabbed the bottle of spirits, threw a final taunt at the owner, and followed. Once outside, Enkrid looked toward Shinar.

“Are you still trailing us?”

“Why would I miss the opportunity for us to spend the evening together?”

She spoke with such boldness—ignoring the fact that Lua Gharne and Rem were also present. Enkrid simply shrugged and kept moving. The midnight sky was clear, and the cool air made for a comfortable trek. The sound of nocturnal insects filled the background.

They intended to visit the two remaining establishments before dawn. If they didn’t want to be out until sunrise, they needed to move faster. After the Kalderan Ruins, the next stop was the Heavenly Square. Many conservative clerics in Naurillia had protested the name, but the salon had withstood their complaints.

“The quest for indulgence is human nature.”

That was the salon’s motto, and they even claimed a form of piety. It wasn’t entirely a lie, as the place had been established by a southern sect. They worshipped the goddess of pleasure and unguents. That title was a double entendre: one referred to the enjoyment of life, while the other referred to the expensive scented oils they traded. The rarest of these oils were as costly as holy potions.

Given its origins in a southern cult, suspicion was unavoidable. Enkrid was contemplating this when he suddenly raised his hand, snapping his fingers together in front of his face. He had caught a thin needle aimed directly at his eye. The movement was so fluid it was nearly invisible to the untrained eye. Other attempts on his life followed immediately, and all were equally unsuccessful.

“You people are truly pathetic.”

Rem might not have been able to wield his former sorcery with his old freedom, but he was still a master combatant. He delivered a powerful back-kick to an assassin coming for his rear. It was a simple rotation on his lead foot and a snap of the leg, but the force was enough to crush bone. The killer tried to take the hit on his forehead to dampen the impact, but it was futile.

*Crunch.*

The strike snapped the assassin’s neck instantly. He was dead before he hit the ground. Rem spun the liquor bottle in his hand, grinning.

“What? Did you think I was helpless without a blade?”

The skirmish was over in seconds. Every shadow that lunged was silenced with a single strike.

“I am currently unable to participate in combat, fiancé.”

Shinar acted the part of the fragile maiden, though none of the killers had even bothered to target her. Most had swarmed Enkrid. He danced through the strikes, making sure his attire remained pristine—he had to maintain appearances for the upcoming salons. His job tonight was to command the room through presence alone, not by starting brawls.

There were six killers in total. Lua Gharne subdued one by catching his dagger mid-swing and slamming her forehead into his face.

“Keuk.”

The man hit the dirt and immediately crushed a capsule in his mouth. Dark blood began to leak from his lips. Lua Gharne watched with wide eyes, then leaned in to catch the scent.

“It appears he utilized a very high-grade toxin.”

This suggested their employers had significant wealth—it wasn’t some low-rent information broker or a pack of amateur thugs. Even so, the execution of the hit had been amateurish, far below the level required to kill knights.

Checking the corpses, they discovered cloths embroidered with a specific mark: vertical lines crossed by a single horizontal bar.

“The hallmark of an anti-monarchy faction?”

It was a classic tool for creating internal strife—inventing a fake revolutionary group to drive a wedge between the king and the lords. It was a textbook divide-and-conquer tactic.

‘The monarchy has gained too much power.’

That strength increased royal leverage, which made the nobility feel the king’s sword hanging over their necks. Some houses had only prospered because of royal patronage.

‘Chief among them, the Duke of Octo.’

And the Marquis Baisar, Marcus, and even Andrew. At any moment, the lords might turn against the throne. They felt vulnerable even when no threat was made. A single spark could burn down the entire social hierarchy. The entire foundation was unstable. The strategy Kraiss suggested—pitting the nobles against each other—was designed to stop a unified rebellion.

‘And what is my part in this?’

Enkrid’s impulse was to gather everyone and confront them directly. He preferred the frontal assault.

‘But is that the right path?’

His gut told him it wasn’t the ideal solution. Simply overpowering everyone would be the most disastrous path he could take. Enkrid paused to reflect; he realized his thought process was becoming too much like Rem’s.

“You have a very annoying look in your eyes,” Rem remarked as they walked.

“It is nothing,” Enkrid answered.

He pushed the thought aside, focusing on what he could control. At the second salon, he gave Rem free rein.

“Drink up!”

The group’s arrival was a loud, attention-grabbing spectacle.

“This place reeks of rot,” Shinar whispered, incinerating the illegal narcotics hidden within the salon.

“The fire is quite lovely,” she added. Once a fairy who trembled at the sight of flames and demons, she now seemed to find joy in the destruction.

“What is the meaning of this madness!”

The salon’s director appeared—a high priest of the cult of pleasure. His disheveled clothing made it obvious what he had been interrupted from doing. This was the smallest venue, but it had the most scandalous reputation.

“That isn’t a social club; it’s a den of vice. Wipe it out,” Kraiss had ordered. Sometimes, to test a defense, you had to hit the shield until it buckled.

“Ensure the salons do not fall into depravity, Sir Knight.”

Those were Kraiss’s parting instructions. Rem had slapped the back of his head for the dramatic delivery.

“Ow! Rem, that hand is for killing monsters. You shouldn’t use it on people.”

“Your mouth is the real monster. Maybe I should use that hand to shut it.”

Kraiss had fled while shouting for help.

“Commander, Captain, Lord!”

It was a recurring comedy for the group. Enkrid stepped in to maintain order and fulfilled Kraiss’s request. Thus, the mission to clean up the salons was officially underway.

“This is insane—!”

“If you have a grievance, take it to the Border Guard. This was my executive decision,” Enkrid stated as they cleared the building and burned the contraband.

“I will petition the King for justice!”

The cult leader, likely under the influence of his own products, screamed. Rem turned, placing a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. The weight of it anchored him to the spot, instantly quenching his rage.

“Is that so?” Rem asked.

The drug-induced fog seemed to lift, or perhaps Rem’s murderous aura was simply too cold to ignore. Either way, the man’s bravado evaporated.

“Actually… perhaps that isn’t necessary,” the man stammered.

“Wise choice,” Rem smirked, his teeth gleaming in the dark.

“Next.”

Enkrid moved them toward the third location. The group continued to be the center of attention wherever they stepped. When the night’s work was finished, Enkrid waited two days before reconvening with Kraiss.

Kraiss was in the process of removing his feminine disguise and makeup—transitioning from the noblewoman seen at the salon back into his true self.

“Enjoy your night out?” Rem laughed.

“Indeed. The network is more extensive than I imagined,” Kraiss said.

The southern operatives had organized like a cellular web, but it was actually several different guilds working in tandem. Some had been tricked, but none were truly innocent—they all knew they were undermining the crown.

“The King will take personal charge of the cleanup.”

With that, the Mad Order’s mission was over. They were knights—assets meant for large-scale warfare, not urban policing. They had only stepped in to show solidarity with the royal family and because Kraiss had asked. Enkrid looked at Kraiss. Big-Eyes was usually very risk-averse.

“It was bold of you to be out there yourself.”

“Well, I had Jaxon shadowing me the entire time. I gave him a very rare artifact to secure his services,” Kraiss admitted.

That explained Jaxon’s absence. Enkrid spent the next three days recovering. During that time, Crang sent several messengers to summon him, and Marcus also tried to detain him.

“My father is fading.”

By that time, the Royal Guard had already dismantled the southern spy ring. However, from the perspective of the spies, the mission had been a success.

“If the King’s power continues to grow, where does that leave the rest of us?”

Some aristocrats were vocalizing their fears. Meanwhile, the Marquis Baisar was on his deathbed. Power always changes hands when a leader falls, and rumors claimed the marquis had failed to designate a successor.

Three days after Enkrid’s sweep of the salons, the funeral took place. Kin Baisar wore simple black mourning clothes. Marcus took the lead as the family head and primary heir. The atmosphere among the gathered nobles was frigid. The recent purge had crippled several noble-led businesses, and their fear of the King’s growing authority turned into resentment.

“This tension won’t fade quickly,” Kraiss whispered during the ceremony.

The Duke of Octo made his way toward Enkrid.

“Have you been well, Sir Knight?”

Enkrid gave the exhausted-looking duke a respectful nod.

“His Majesty has a request for you.”

A message delivered by a duke was no small matter. Enkrid was about to respond, but Crang spoke first.

“Since everyone is present, I have an announcement.”

He commanded the entire room as he began his speech. Every eye turned toward him. Enkrid recalled what Marcus had said: that the marquis had passed away with a smile on his face. It wasn’t the smile of a man worried about the future. He had shared a final, private conversation with Crang before the end.