Chapter 814

Chapter 814

The arrival of Dunbakel was a significant event, yet it did little to disrupt the established rhythm of their lives.

When the following dawn broke, Enkrid was already back at his post, occupying his time in his characteristic fashion. To put it plainly, he poured his entire being into his drills.

‘Balrog.’

A vast portion of his concentration was spent mentally revisiting the path that led to his encounter with Balrog. Once his early morning physical exercises were complete, he would remain motionless, lost in profound contemplation. He committed himself to capturing the fleeting sparks of intuition and the lingering echoes of thought that surfaced during these quiet intervals just as intensely as he committed to physical movement.

His recent duel with Dunbakel had served to expand his horizons, providing him with firsthand exposure to entirely unfamiliar maneuvers and strategies.

Enkrid paced the perimeter of the training grounds incessantly, deep in thought. This had evolved into a fixed habit; he found his mind functioned with greater clarity when he was active rather than stationary.

‘Three-dimensionality.’

Dunbakel had crafted a tactical approach that maximized the beastwoman’s innate physical gifts. Essentially, her movement wasn’t restricted to linear charges. She circled her target, retreated more than ten paces in a flash, spun with agility, and constantly tested for vulnerabilities.

‘It wasn’t a standard duel—it was a hunt.’

The style suited her as perfectly as a custom-made garment. It utilized her springy musculature, her raw athleticism, and her ability to track an adversary not with sight, but through scent. It was a methodology that only someone with Dunbakel’s specific traits could execute.

During their practice, she had caught his collar with a mere flick of her fingers while her back was turned, never once glancing his way. For a split second, he had nearly surrendered his advantage. That she could do this despite the significant gap in their overall prowess was telling. It illustrated just how lethally sharp the edge Dunbakel had polished truly was.

‘A martial art that has reached a point of singularity.’

It was no longer accurate to categorize this simply as swordsmanship. It was a combat style that perfectly synthesized the beastwoman’s physical nature.

‘Does that imply I am unable to replicate it?’

Not strictly. As a knight, he possessed the physical conditioning required; it was possible. However, it wouldn’t be a practical use of his energy. There was no benefit in forcing himself to mimic her style in its entirety. The core principle—the utilization of space in three dimensions—was a concept well worth integrating into his own repertoire.

Enkrid’s foundational techniques, the Wavebreaker, Killing the Embers, the Sword of Coincidence, and various methods of Will manipulation—all these elements swirled in his mind. He categorized and refined them one by one. To Enkrid, this intellectual labor was nothing short of a joy. If he couldn’t find pleasure in this, then where else would he find it?

Enkrid wasn’t the only one who had grown; Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, and Audin had also gained significant insights from the encounter. They, too, were dedicating their hours to rigorous improvement.

While the Mad Order of Knights remained buried in their training, new travelers began to show up at the Border Guard.

One man stood out with hair as black as ink and eyes of crimson—a combination rarely seen across the lands. He wore a hat with a broad brim, scanning the city as he walked. His dark tresses escaped from under the headwear, reaching down past his jawline.

“The scent here is pleasant.”

He spoke with a bright, clear tone. It carried the quality of a youth whose voice had not yet fully deepened.

The external entrance to the Border Guard was accessible to anyone, provided their credentials were in order. The sentries stationed there weren’t the type to solicit illegal payments.

“Bribes? If you have the cunning to take them, go ahead. I won’t stop you. The same goes for theft—do it as well as your talents allow.”

Kraiss hadn’t explicitly outlawed such things. Yet, no one dared to try. The training was thorough, the equipment was of high quality, and the wages were incomparable to any other regional militia. Furthermore, anyone caught in a shadow deal faced a retribution so total that there was no life left for them afterward.

In the beginning, there were plenty of arrogant men who tested those boundaries, but what was their fate? Not a single one of them was left in the regular army. They weren’t even capable of surviving as common thieves or street thugs. Kraiss had dominated the city’s underbelly long before he took control of its commerce. Attempting to commit a crime and hide in the alleys was effectively an invitation to be thrown into a dungeon. He had achieved all of this while managing the city with a sense of fairness and logic.

Could gold alone improve the quality of a fighting force? Never.

The traveler understood this, and he pursed his lips to whistle a light tune.

“It’s more than just the scent that’s nice about this city.”

The streets were well-constructed, soldiers were visible at every turn, merchants were seen laughing with the troops, and children played freely. The military hub of the Border Guard had evolved into a second heart for Naurillia.

‘Is this place actually more advanced than Naurill itself?’

It certainly gave that impression.

A heavy carriage rolled past the traveler, kicking up a small plume of grit. Following behind him was a stout man with a friendly expression. His attire was decorated with golden circular patterns resembling coins, identifying him as a member of the most prominent merchant collective on the continent. He was a merchant of Lengadis.

Bringing up the rear was a third man, a large greatsword strapped across his shoulders, his face hidden by a deep hood.

“Just the three of us, then?”

The young man in the black hat was the first to speak. He appeared much younger than his companions, and his casual manner suggested it was only natural for him to take the lead. The others didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s what I was told. Being a subordinate isn’t exactly a vacation.”

The round-faced merchant wiped his brow and answered. He took no offense at the youth’s informal tone, responding with polite deference.

“Precisely.”

The trio spent time wandering the city, taking it all in. It was an impressive location—calm and organized. The food was abundant, the lodging was spotless, and an underground drainage system kept the usual city stenches at bay.

“Wow, we should really recruit whoever planned this city.”

The man in the black hat remarked, his tone somewhere between a joke and a serious proposal. If things went according to plan, bringing such a person along would be a wise move.

On the fourth day of their stay, they approached the inner district. A sentry on duty barred their path with his spear. The guard’s name was Marco.

“State your purpose here.”

Unlike the outer gates, the inner city was restricted. No one passed through without explicit clearance. That was the standard. Marco had once dared to challenge Enkrid, only to be soundly defeated. Since then, he had found his place within the Border Guard’s standing forces. He was happy with his current situation, but he never stopped training. He was driven by the goal of becoming a squire for the Mad Order of Knights. Currently, the only person to hold that title was “Fallen Clemence.”

‘I’ll be the next one.’

That was the ambition that fueled Marco.

Now, Marco observed the two men and the warrior coming toward him. The individual with the massive sword met Marco’s eyes. Immediately, a chill raced across Marco’s skin. In that instant, he had a vivid premonition of his own head falling from his shoulders.

Thack!

Marco instinctively pulled his spear back and drove the base of it into the dirt, leaping backward. It was pure survival instinct. Had he remained still, he felt he would have been killed. His body had reacted to that overwhelming certainty. Just a second of eye contact, and cold sweat was already soaking his back.

‘This person…’

He was a skilled member of the army. He had sparred with Rophod occasionally. Sometimes even Rem would give him a lesson. He understood what true pressure felt like, and what he just encountered was a concentrated aura of death.

“You there.”

Marco ground his teeth and spoke, his guard fully raised. He knew by the weight of that presence alone that this was not a foe he could match. If he moved to attack, he would perish. It felt as certain as the rising sun. His heart hammered against his ribs, and the sweat grew colder.

So, should he retreat? Marco had once been a cocky youth who relied on his raw potential. But he had changed. If you run when it is time to stand your ground, there is no point in carrying a weapon. Is it because power is the only truth? Because the strong take what they want?

‘No.’

It was about proving his worth by standing by his post. Currently, Marco’s obligation was to guard this entrance.

‘And if I can, to ensure the safety of those behind me.’

His friend was expecting a child next month. Marco locked his eyes on the strangers, sharpening every sense he had developed in the field.

‘They are dangerous.’

His gut told him all three—the swordsman and the two in front—were lethal.

Thump.

Marco kicked the base of his spear, leveling the point once more as he dropped into a fighting stance. He adjusted his footing for mobility, kept his eyes forward, and braced his core against the suffocating pressure, breathing in slow, controlled cycles.

“Impressive.”

The man with the greatsword finally spoke. Between the words, the previous pressure, and the sheer gravity of his presence, the conclusion was obvious.

‘A knight.’

If Dunbakel represented a spring-like, flexible energy, this man was a solid slab of metal. ‘Iron forged in a furnace.’ That was the metaphor that came to Marco’s mind. He moved his jaw, refusing to show his nerves.

“Go and inform the others that unannounced guests have arrived, Rimil.”

His partner, Rimil, didn’t move to leave at the command.

“Always trying to act the hero, Marco.”

Rimil used his friend’s shorthand name and continued:

“I am also one of the Border Guard’s shields.”

The formal name for the regular army was the “Shields of the Border.” Since the walls were the fortress, they were the shields that stood before them.

“Your form is solid, but we are merely visitors. It would be best if you simply passed the message along.”

The round-bellied man with the sagging cheeks took a step forward.

“Or… is this perhaps what you’re looking for?”

He snapped his fingers as if flipping a coin toward them.

“No, that isn’t necessary,” Marco replied.

“Then lower your weapon. I don’t have the temperament to ignore an open display of hostility.”

The warrior with the greatsword spoke again. His voice was heavy, and his aura was anything but peaceful. Cold sweat dripped down Marco’s temple as he slowly dipped the point of his spear. Even in a direct fight, he knew he was no match for this man. Attacking would change nothing. It was a rational, cold calculation.

Of course, he wasn’t just going to let them walk in. At the very least, Rimil needed to report back.

As fate would have it, Esther happened to come across the group.

“You.”

The man in the black hat spotted her and offered a greeting as if they were old friends.

“They say the enigmas of destiny are as profound as magic itself.”

He spoke, and Esther offered nothing but a fleeting, disinterested glance in return. She was completely unmoved. Regardless, they had crossed paths before.

“This makes things a bit more complex. You aren’t actually the person I’m here to visit, though.”

The youth in the hat licked his lips. His tongue was notably long, almost serpentine.

“Will you lead the way, Child of the Stars?”

Esther gave a brief nod. She made a gesture to Marco and Rimil, and the two sentries stepped aside in silence.

“Follow me.”

Once the three strangers had departed with Esther, Rimil let out a long, shaky breath.

“I almost died before I could even see my kid. Why do they have to be so incredibly bloodthirsty?”

“You should have left when I told you to,” Marco muttered, though he felt a secret respect for Rimil. He, too, had only been trying to do his job to the best of his ability.

“Well, my legs locked up, so I didn’t have much choice,” Rimil joked weakly.

Marco squinted, watching the trio disappear into the distance.

‘They weren’t normal.’

But if someone were to ask if they could take down the Knights led by Enkrid—

‘No, I don’t think so.’

Marco was one of the men who had observed Enkrid and the Mad Order of Knights from a front-row seat. To him, those men were certainly monsters.

‘But there are even worse monsters waiting inside that place.’

Ragna was proof enough of that.

“It wasn’t the heat.”

That was the only thing he had said since he came back, swinging his blade at every shadow. Among the ranks of the soldiers, an unofficial rule had been established: never step within the reach of Ragna’s sword. It meant that regardless of his surroundings, he might suddenly strike without a word of warning. No one had been killed by his practice, but many had found their clothing sliced open. And calling it a “slice” was an understatement; the blade would graze the skin as thin as a piece of paper. To feel that was to feel the very hair on your neck stand up.

“Don’t stress it. Even if he cuts something off, I’ll just put it back on.”

His partner, the healer Anne, had said that, which was a terrifying thought in its own right. So, Marco didn’t worry.