Chapter 865

Chapter 865

Cypress had lived a long life. His years of experience had taught him a single, unwavering truth: those who possessed genuine greatness never abandoned their discipline.
Every knight of significant standing followed this rule. Those who allowed their innate gifts to make them arrogant or lazy were eventually filtered out, vanishing into obscurity.
If one observed the passage of time closely enough, the pattern was undeniable. The ones who pushed themselves survived; the others were simply discarded by history.
‘Ingis is the most brilliant uncut diamond I have ever found.’
Evaluating the progress of the knight known as Ingis, Cypress reached that firm conclusion. He held the man in the highest regard.
Was it due to some peerless natural talent he was born with?
It was not.
Was it because he hailed from a prestigious lineage?
That was not the reason either.
What, then, was the primary factor that made Cypress value Ingis so deeply?
‘Iron Mask Ingis.’
The man lived every day with identical focus. He never expressed weariness at the monotony. He possessed a rare talent for repetitive labor. His face remained a mask, his spirit anchored, upright, and devoted. His greatest asset was his stability—the fact that he never let his own potential go to his head.
‘Consistency.’
That was the defining quality of Ingis. Of course, as Cypress frequently noted, his raw ability was immense as well.
‘Then how do you explain what I’m seeing now?’
A thin smile touched Cypress’s lips as he turned his attention toward the heart of the training grounds.
There, two figures stood, radiating a divine presence so thick they might have been mistaken for living relics. Both possessed physiques so massive they could be confused for bear beastmen.
He had been told one of them carried the blood of giants.
That implied the other was a baseline human—a fact that was honestly staggering.
Among the nearby troops, one could hear quiet whispers speculating that there must be some ursine ancestry hidden in their family trees, and Cypress found the suspicion quite reasonable.
These two towering holy knights, bearing the emblem of the War God like a standard, naturally commanded the center of the field, creating a wide berth around themselves. Within that perimeter, the Mad Order of Knights had assembled. The sun had not yet climbed above the horizon. It was that silent, navy-blue window of time just before the first light of dawn.
Cypress, dressed in nothing but a frayed linen shirt, observed the gathered warriors.
A man with chestnut hair and an athletic, long-limbed frame raised his voice to be heard.
“Hard work? That’s just a desperate game played by those who lack talent.”
This was Pell, a former shepherd from the wastes. Despite the irony that he trained more relentlessly than anyone else, these were the words he chose. He was a lunatic—there was a reason his unit was called the Mad Order.
His statement lacked any real bite, given how heavily he was gasping for air. Beside him, a man named Rophod grunted a reply.
“Give that insane chatter a rest.”
Rophod’s face was also drenched. Sweat pooled at his chin before splashing into the dirt.
“At least the weather cleared. It’s better now that the rain has stopped.”
This comment came from a Westerner who was currently rhythmic with his axe.
His sparring partner was a swordsman who looked half-awake. The man rubbed sleep from his eyes and let out a yawn, yet in the same motion, he swung his blade toward the axeman’s skull.
“I’m going to lob off that tongue so I can have some peace in the morning.”
That was the level of their banter.
The two circled one another, their movements sharp. With every step, plumes of dust erupted from the ground. It was a calculated dance for dominance and positioning.
Even though this wasn’t a fight to the death, it was obvious to any onlooker that intervening would be a lethal mistake.
“Quite a lot of spirit for such an early hour.”
Ever since they had begun standing in for the holy artifacts, the bear-like man and the half-giant had abandoned sleep entirely.
A knight was capable of going several nights without rest, though it was never a pleasant experience.
Nevertheless, the men surrounding them continued their own drills without a word of protest.
*Swish.*
It was a rare sight to see a Frokk expertly snapping her whip in practice, and no less strange to watch a Dragonoid with hair as white as snow wielding a blade.
Then there was Crang, the sovereign of a nation, who had pulled up a chair to watch the proceedings with a keen eye.
‘The outlook is grim.’
The truth was brutal.
Cypress understood the precarious state of the conflict better than most. The others surely knew it too; they had dissected the dire logistics repeatedly during their war councils.
‘A single pegasus.’
The armies of the south boasted more than twenty flying mounts, yet these men conducted their morning as if the odds were perfectly even.
At the center of it all was the individual who had risen the earliest and worked the hardest. His name was Enkrid.
“Truly impressive, brother.”
Audin, the holy knight, looked on with a grin. The first rays of dawn began to bleed into the sky. The sun broke through where storm clouds had recently reigned. A new morning.
“You remain exactly as you were.”
The king’s voice drifted over. Cypress knew precisely what he was referring to.
This was Enkrid’s natural state of being. Regardless of his location, he was always moving, always training, always pushing his body to the limit.
‘It goes beyond mere diligence—’
It was a form of severity, a relentless pursuit.
If a hurricane were to move through the camp, Enkrid would likely continue his forms. It was etched into his soul.
‘I would be lying if I said I didn’t desire that kind of spirit for my own ranks.’
Of course, that ship had sailed. Enkrid was already the commander of the knights who wore dark-green mantles instead of the red ones.
While Cypress felt a sense of professional wonder, Burnion, who was observing the same scene, was struck by a different set of emotions. He leaned against his long spear, using it like a crutch.
His body was heavy with the exhaustion of days of non-stop combat, yet as he watched Enkrid, a portion of that fatigue seemed to evaporate. It simply vanished into the morning air.
A single thought dominated his mind.
‘He hasn’t changed a bit.’
Enkrid was constant. Nothing had shifted. Despite his elevation to knighthood, he still beat everyone to the training grounds and put in the most effort. In Burnion’s eyes, the man he knew in the past was identical to the man standing there now. It was stunning. His willpower hadn’t diminished even as his prowess grew.
‘He was exactly like this back then, too.’
Every sellsword who had served under him used to find their own resolve just by watching him.
“Whenever you look at that guy, you just feel like picking up a weapon and swinging it.”
Burnion recalled a former comrade saying those exact words. Now, those men were all gone—lost to the earth.
Thinking of the past brought his fallen friends to the forefront of his mind, which led his internal monologue to its inevitable destination.
‘Ah—vengeance.’
It was a word that tasted sweet but carried a heavy burden. The more powerful the enemy, the heavier that burden became.
For Burnion, looking at Enkrid meant seeing a man who could carry out his legacy even if he fell in battle. Kindness didn’t just end; connections weren’t so easily severed.
He could still clearly recall a specific conversation they had shared while patrolling the lines.
“What became of your former mercenary group?”
Enkrid had inquired.
“They’re all dead.”
“Every one of them?”
“Every single one.”
Burnion had recounted the history—a contract that went south, a situation that turned ugly, and the realization that a horror from the Demon Realm had been pulling the strings.
The men who were his brothers and his family were wiped out. Every bit of currency he had earned, he had sent back to the families the mercenaries had left behind. Some had managed to start lives of their own; that was his only solace.
Once that task was done, Burnion had headed for the Southern Front.
To fight until his last breath on the battlefield closest to the Demon Realm—that was his only reason to keep breathing.
Enkrid had once been part of that very same mercenary band. After hearing the story, the man who would inherit that legacy spoke.
“Hold on for ten years—no, make it five.”
“For what purpose?”
“Aren’t you going to get your revenge?”
He asked it as if it were a foregone conclusion. As if it were a simple matter of ‘when,’ not ‘if.’
“I will.”
Burnion didn’t weep then. He had already drained his eyes of tears when his company was slaughtered.
“I will,” he said again.
Instead of crying, he felt a sharp, tearing ache in his chest.
“I was a part of that group as well.”
Enkrid’s statement resonated through Burnion’s entire frame, leaving a lingering, physical thrum in his heart.
The kindness had come back around, and the link remained unbroken. Enkrid was more than capable of taking up Burnion’s cause.
“Thank you,” Burnion had said.
Enkrid’s response was characteristically blunt.
“If you’re actually grateful, then focus on staying alive.”
At that, Burnion let out a final, stray tear and started laughing. It was the exact same thing he had said to Enkrid the day he saved his life.
“You can’t even remember my name half the time, but you remember that? You’re a total lunatic.”
“Burnion is a common name. It’s forgettable.”
“And you think ‘Tom’ is somehow more unique?”
“If you yell ‘Tom’ in a crowd, one out of ten people will look at you. It’s efficient.”
The two of them had shared a laugh—just like they used to in their days as soldiers of fortune.
While Burnion was lost in his memories, the soldier Lapild watched the envoy of his God with a sense of pure, unadulterated devotion. The man’s posture conveyed only one message—
That no matter what occurred, the training would never stop.
“As long as there is blood in my veins, I will be on the front lines.”
Those were the words Lapild had uttered when he first arrived in the South. What had he actually done to honor that oath?
He felt his pulse quicken. The enemy hadn’t shown themselves yet, and the command had ordered rest—but his blood was screaming.
‘I want to be in the thick of it.’
Lapild whispered a prayer while standing near Audin. Hearing the plea, Audin smiled warmly and rested a hand on the soldier’s shoulder.
“Brother Lapild, to struggle is to survive. The urge to live is our most basic instinct. Do not let go of it.”
Only forty-eight hours had passed since the skies had cleared. It was a brief window of recovery.
“It seems you’ve stolen my spotlight.”
Cypress let out a booming laugh.
Enkrid shifted his attention toward the sound, his eyes scanning the various soldiers who were observing him.
Their gazes were intense—fervent and full of life.
It wasn’t just Burnion or Lapild.
Almost half of the Southern defense contingent had congregated in the center. These troops were the elite—the literal shield protecting Naurillia. That was their purpose.
“You’d have an easier time if you just gave up.”
“Just walk away.”
“Stop this pointless grind. There’s a comfortable life waiting for you—why throw it away for this?”
Enkrid had heard those taunts and mocks countless times before he earned his spurs. The people who said those things never made it to where he was now.
These soldiers—this army before him—represented his former self.
‘The ones who refused to quit, who kept a flickering spark alive in their hearts and kept swinging.’
With that realization, Enkrid halted his sword. He flipped the grip and slammed the point into the earth.
*Thud.*
The steel bit deep into the wet soil. That one simple movement commanded the attention of everyone present. Hands and feet went still.
He suddenly thought of his first encounter with Crang. Every motion that man made had carried a different weight.
Leaving the blade embedded in the ground, Enkrid rested his palm on the hilt. Silence washed over the training ground. The only sound was the collective rhythm of breathing.
With his hand steady on the weapon, Enkrid looked up. He didn’t use any flashy displays of power, but his words carried an undeniable gravity.
In the stillness, his voice echoed clearly.
“I assume no one here signed up because they were looking for a place to die?”
He didn’t wait for a response. Every man there remained silent, eyes locked on him.
“Then fight with everything you have. For whatever it is you truly want.”
The speech was brief. In the ensuing quiet, the only thing that rose was the palpable heat of the soldiers’ conviction.
“We will,” Lapild whispered to himself, reaffirming his vow.
*Clap.* Crang struck his palms together.
“Well said.”
Crang was a man whose words could move mountains because they were backed by genuine intent.
“Personally, my dream is to pass away peacefully in a warm bed,” Cypress joked, breaking the tension.
Even this early, most of the Red Cloaks had come out to witness the scene.
Some kept their hands on their hilts; others just watched in silence. The younger knights, in particular, looked inspired.
Who hadn’t heard of the reputation of the Mad Order of Knights?
Their collective energy seemed to warm the entire camp. They funneled that drive into fortifying their defenses.
Lua Gharne and Aurelia spent the hours refining their tactical approach.
“We should clear the center of the encampment.”
“Agreed. That’s the most efficient move.”
Following the new directives, the Southern Front became a hive of activity, busier than it had been even before the enemy’s approach.
“Do you Royal Guards think you’re exempt from labor? If you aren’t busy flying, get to work.”
Crang issued the command.
“Our primary mission is to ensure Your Majesty’s safety.”
“Precisely. So get moving. Assisting these men is the best way to ensure I stay safe.”
Crang’s resolve was unshakable. The commander of the Royal Guard was a man who took his role as the king’s shield very seriously, especially in dire times.
He was also a man who deeply respected his sovereign’s wishes.
“Form up. Guard the King in pairs on a rotating shift.”
For the captain, that was the only acceptable middle ground. He slashed their resting periods so the Royal Guard could contribute to the manual labor.
Enkrid’s schedule remained predictable.
The morning was dedicated to a brutal cycle of training, while the rest of his time was spent in the air or in the saddle with Odd-Eye.
*Neigh!*
Odd-Eye seemed to have an infinite reservoir of energy, yet Enkrid was careful to ensure the beast rested properly.
“It would be a disgrace to fail when the real fight starts, Odd-Eye.”
Later, during a quiet moment, Enkrid posed a question to Crang.
The King was sitting on the ground, eating a bowl of stew just like any other common soldier.
“Aren’t you worried someone might have poisoned that?”
“If the heavens decide it’s my time, I’ll accept it.”
In reality, Crang’s constitution—having been touched by the Sun’s Radiance—was resistant to most toxins. The rank-and-file soldiers didn’t know that, of course. Hearing him say it only deepened their loyalty.
Their King sat with them, ate with them, and spoke with them. He was a man of the people.
“Why did you only bring the Royal Guard and the national army?”
If he had asked, Aisia or Marquess Marcus Baisar surely would have joined the effort.
“Preparation,” Crang replied laconically. Enkrid simply nodded in understanding.
After that, it was back to aerial maneuvers until the sun dipped below the horizon. Since the mount was designed for the sky rather than the earth, the training was non-negotiable.
For several days, the fire within the army burned bright. It didn’t flicker. Even as the enemy finally began their march, that resolve remained ironclad.