Chapter 881

Chapter 881

Kaaaaaa—
The roar of the atmosphere rushing past was staggering. One might wonder if a dragon of ancient myth produced such a sound when unhinging its maw to release a torrent of flame.

That an individual could manage to eat, slumber, and find repose in the midst of this chaos served as definitive evidence that they had moved beyond the limits of typical humanity. In that regard, Enkrid had undoubtedly stepped past the boundaries of the mundane. He was a man who relied more on relentless toil than raw endowment, yet looking at him now, none could appear more like a true knight.

Was this not the reason knights were likened to natural disasters—because their actions defied all logic? In a sense, it was only to be expected. Naturally, not every warrior of the order could reach such a height.

This man of extraordinary nature was currently deep in reflection.
‘Is the territory of the viscount in flames?’

What had become of the Border Guard’s permanent garrison stationed there? Had Kraiss not dispatched double the usual contingent, driven by a nagging sense of unease? The moment the phrase “hostilities with the south” reached Kraiss’s ears, he had reinforced the units heading toward the lands of Viscount Harrison.

‘And the frequency of the scout patrols was markedly increased as well.’

The words of Finn resonated in his mind—the way he had circled the Pen-Hanil Range, charting paths across the open fields and timberlands while coordinating the southern Border Guard and the viscount’s holdings.
“I doubt even a colony of ants exerts itself this much,” Finn had remarked. Even if it was mostly a grumble, Finn always executed his duties. That was the essence of Scout Captain Finn.

During those preparations, Kraiss had gone so far as to call Seiki into the city—the former Saintess and current Pen-Hanil ranger. She was a woman whose aspirations lay in becoming a Highlander, a solitary mountain dweller who lived off the land as a self-sufficient warrior.

Afterward, Kraiss had spent his days in prayer to the goddess of providence and luck, pleading for the swift return of Ester. These were the final actions Kraiss had taken before departing the city.

“It is truly heartwarming to see you interceding for another woman,” Nurat had commented.
Kraiss had maintained a look of absolute gravity when she said that.
“Look at me, Captain. Observe how I offer up my own serenity for the sake of this city’s protection. I want my headstone to read: ‘Kraiss, fallen by the hand of his beloved for the sake of his people.’”

If blending solemnity with theatrical bravado was a talent, then he was a master of it. The reason for his dramatic display was transparent—he was riddled with apprehension.
Nurat gave a nod and rested her palm against the hilt of her blade.
Chireeeng—ting.
The resonance of the steel sliding against the wood was crisp. Enkrid felt a silent surge of respect. Nurat’s ability to draw her weapon had become significantly more refined.

The act of releasing the safety and unsheathing the sword now appeared as a seamless, singular event. Her prowess had matured immensely, reflecting the dedication of someone who never ceased practicing, regardless of their natural gifts. As the partner and protector of Kraiss, her capabilities were beyond reproach.

“Are we truly permitted to leave Viscount Harrison to his fate?”
Kraiss abruptly shifted the topic. It was a redundant question, as he already grasped the reality of the situation. It was merely a distraction to avoid the metaphorical edge of his lover’s scrutiny. To assist the man who had effectively offered his own life for the city’s survival, Enkrid was happy to cooperate. He signaled his agreement with a slow shake of his head.

“The answer is quite plain,” Enkrid replied.
Kraiss’s expression darkened at the words. The corners of his eyes slumped, and a sickly pallor washed over his features. He was being consumed by various anxieties. It was this very fear that drove him to prepare for every conceivable threat.

Sifting through his memories of Kraiss, Enkrid visualized the noble who had been the focal point of their discussion.
‘Viscount Harrison.’
He was the man who had provided the consecrated spring water that Odd-Eye—whose wings were currently rhythmic beneath him—had consumed. He was a middle-aged aristocrat possessed of eyes that sparkled like those of a young boy.

“I shall cultivate the earth,” he had said with such joy.
In his lands, every inhabitant studied the science of agriculture. That was the origin of the vineyard, or so Enkrid had been told. If those vines were reduced to ash, or if the pride of his estate was shredded, it would be a tragedy, but manageable.
‘Even if things fall apart, one can always rebuild.’

The priority was staying among the living. Would dwelling on it change the outcome? It would not. Spurring Odd-Eye’s flanks with his heels would not hasten their flight. This was not the hour for fretting. Enkrid redirected his mental energy. It wasn’t an easy task to steer one’s thoughts like a river, but through years of discipline, he had learned to manage it.

‘There is a lesson hidden in every ordeal.’
This was a fundamental truth he lived by. Since anxiety provided no benefit, he turned to mental visualization and training.
‘Those two.’
Their combat had been exceptional. It wasn’t merely brute force; they had orchestrated strategies and countered movements before their blades even met. To deny he was impressed would be a falsehood.

However, while those two had refined their tactical habits through hundreds of sparring matches within the structure of their knight order, Enkrid had survived at the very bottom as a sell-sword and scout. He had learned through the risk of death, constant repetition, and the mastery of hard-won experience. To this, he had added the wisdom of a Frokk who had survived two centuries and was a genius of warfare.

His mind delved deeper. Those opponents had also displayed something that transcended mere technique. That, too, had caught his attention.
‘Unnatural gifts.’
Each had exhibited a unique talent. One controlled raw physical force; the other seemed to wield an invisible influence.

To achieve the physical strength he currently possessed, Enkrid had spilled his own blood. It wasn’t a metaphor—he had physically coughed up blood while tempering his frame.
“Brother, is all muscle created equal?”
Audin’s physique wasn’t just large. The density of his fibers was fundamentally different from a normal man’s. Enkrid had reconstructed his own body following that philosophy.

Audin maintained that true physical tempering required the shedding of blood from the lungs—a process that hardened the internal organs as well. Even Enkrid would grimace at the thought of repeating that ordeal. Let alone the Ferryman.
“Do not dwell on today. Focus on the morrow.”
That voice still haunted his sleep occasionally. The training had been that grueling.

Had his enemies endured the same? Had they forged their bodies to such a density? Had they packed their frames with such animalistic power? Had they utilized methods that rebuilt the physical form while infusing it with Will?
What Enkrid practiced was the hidden path of Balaph-style conditioning—rumored to be the giants’ own secrets stolen by men.

His adversaries were different. Their biology was not sculpted in that fashion. At a glance, Enkrid could tell the enemy knight’s body was nothing like his own. Her muscle density was lower. Yet, her explosive power was undeniable. She tapped into a reservoir of strength that defied her physical build.
‘That is why—Giant’s Strength.’
The knight with the spear had moved as if she possessed an extra, unseen limb.
‘Will my future opponents wield similar powers?’

The southern region—Rihinstetten—placed great importance on unique lineages, and predictably, it had birthed many such strange abilities. He had already engaged and slain two such warriors. Was there a flaw in the outcome? A moment of true crisis? Was this the absolute limit of his prowess?
Many questions swirled and collided before settling on a single realization.
‘The true might of Rihinstetten has yet to be revealed.’
It was a visceral instinct.

Odd-Eye began to descend. Enkrid gazed down at the recognizable terrain below. The earth was partitioned into various geometric shapes for cultivation. Each section had a unique purpose. Some areas were deeply tilled; others were covered by massive, structured tents.
‘A technique to maintain warmth even through the frost.’

It was a revolutionary farming method born of long years of research. In the oceans lived the Sirens—predators that enchanted men before devouring them. Their scales were thin, resilient, and let light pass through. They were incredibly costly. At one time, garments made of Siren scales were worth more than their weight in gold. It was a textile more precious than jewels.

‘A man obsessed with the soil.’
The thought surfaced unbidden. Viscount Harrison had spent a fortune to acquire those Siren scales to use as a roof for his crops. Those hides allowed light to enter and trapped it within. Most would not realize it, but Siren scales also stored the heat of the sun. At that level of warmth, even delicate flowers could survive the winter, let alone hardy crops.

“It was a narrow thing. I spent half my wealth on it,” the viscount would say with a beaming face. He was truly a man who found joy in his labor.
The structure was unharmed. The scene was tranquil. In Enkrid’s sight, soldiers were positioned near the heated tent that the viscount loved like his own child.
“Odd-Eye.”

The winged horse carved a wide arc in the sky. It had become far more proficient in its movements, no longer dropping like a stone. Using the wind to its advantage, it spiraled down and touched its hooves to the earth. It was a graceful arrival, though still intimidating to those on the ground.
Fwaaaang!
A gust of wind and a cloud of grit erupted as Odd-Eye landed. With the sun positioned behind him, Enkrid scanned his surroundings.

Several familiar individuals were present. Some were already armed with axes and tools. One man had his arm cocked back, prepared to hurl a projectile.
“Viscount Harrison,” Enkrid called out as he stepped down.
“…Sir Enkrid?”
The viscount’s eyes were wide with shock.
“There was no raid?” Enkrid asked steadily.
The nobleman answered without thinking.
“They bypassed us. Ah—yes, the hostile forces simply moved on. What did they call themselves? The Soil Brigade?”
“The Ocher Corps—the mark of the Mud Order.”

Enkrid wasn’t privy to all the military nuances, but if Naurillia named their units after specific knights, the south was renowned for five primary corps that served their respective orders. This was what the assault soldier from Rem had been referring to earlier. While Enkrid lacked formal knowledge, he understood the gravity of the situation through intuition.
“Rihinstetten?”
“Indeed, Captain.”
Many of the soldiers under Rem were hot-headed, but not all. The one who spoke now was one of the more level-headed subordinates.
“They are moving toward Border Guard.”
“In what numbers?”
“No fewer than three thousand.”

That was more than the army that had moved against the capital—triple the size, in fact. Why? He couldn’t fathom the strategy. And why leave the viscount’s lands untouched? Information was scarce. His mind raced as he tried to piece it together.
‘A skilled leader avoids needless skirmishes to save their strength. If the goal is clear, they do not dawdle.’
“They moved with total purpose,” the officer added.
“Then we go,” Enkrid commanded, mounting Odd-Eye. The beast broke into a run and took to the skies once more—its third flight of the day.

—

Rihinstetten had historically maintained five knightly orders: Ruby, Amethyst, Sapphire, Mud, and Onyx. Now, only Ruby, Amethyst, and Mud remained active.
Amethyst was the bastion of the aristocracy. Ruby was a meritocracy that took anyone with sufficient talent.
As for the Mud Order and the Ocher Corps—
“Atonement through service.”

That was their creed. They were the scions of convicts. Because of their origins, their internal discipline was merciless, including the use of execution squads for those who faltered. To retreat was to choose death, and any breach of conduct was met with immediate, brutal punishment.

In Rihinstetten, it was customary for the knightly order to be established first, followed by its supporting units. The Mud Order was the exception. The corps of prisoners had been formed first. On the fields of war, knights eventually rose from those ranks, creating the Mud Order.
“Our goal is Border Guard.”
The commander of the Mud Order rode alongside two of his knights.

The three thousand men comprising the prisoner corps were viewed as expendable—arrows meant to be fired once and forgotten. Aside from the three knights and the disciplinary units, the entire force was considered a calculated loss. That was the Rihinstetten way of war.
Was the Mad Order of Knights at Border Guard a problem? Then incinerate their base. How? By turning the soldiers into human torches and ordering a charge.

In all the world, which territory fought with the most desperation?
Which populace was the most accustomed to blood?
Which monarch struggled the hardest against fate?
The answers were found in the south, bordering the Demon-lands. They had survived by spilling red blood over the black soil of demons. A heavy, dark energy permeated the lands near that border. When a demon’s influence grew, entire civilizations could be erased in a single night. That was the south—a theater of permanent twilight, misery, and destruction.

“Let us pierce the city where it is most vulnerable,” the commander declared.
“Atonement through service!”
“Atonement through service!”
Because their deeds could wash away their shame, the kin of those who fell would no longer bear the stigma of criminality. For that reason, they were willing to discard their lives. If a single knight cut down a thousand, fifteen hundred more would swarm over the bodies. Even if only one remained, he would spend his final breath driving a blade into the enemy.

They moved with chilling focus along the Safe Road that Border Guard had constructed.