Chapter 883

Chapter 883

Who stood at the peak of the Mad Order of Knights?

This was a puzzle Kraiss had proposed one afternoon. Enkrid, busy tending to a simmering pot, responded with the casual tone of someone adding pinches of salt, detailing his thoughts as he worked.

“If the battle dissolves into a chaotic brawl, nobody outclasses Rem. His reflexive speed is terrifying, but it’s when you picture him creating space and nonchalantly swinging a sling that the result becomes obvious. Just the thought of that prick Rem makes me want to crack his skull open.”

“I see,” Kraiss said, nodding instantly. Enkrid’s breakdown was so lucid that Kraiss could practically see the scene unfolding. “That would certainly be infuriating.”

From an adversary’s perspective, it was the ultimate frustration. Rem was deceptive; he had the look of a wild man who only knew how to swing an axe, but he was incredibly cerebral. He fought by ruthlessly capitalizing on his natural edges.

“And surely you don’t think it’s easy to best a fairy within the woods? An expert monster slayer who never tires in the brush, uses his life force to send out invisible strikes, and now commands spirits—are you familiar with her?”

Shinar Kirheis was a fairy, and fairies were built for assassination. If you encountered Shinar among the trees, she transformed into a living nightmare. She possessed the raw power to beat legendary beasts to death. Furthermore, if the word ‘demon’ was uttered—a rarity for her kind—she would erupt in a fury far more savage than usual.

“In a duel, it’s hard to see anyone overcoming Ragna. In a direct, head-on clash, Ragna identifies and dismantles an opponent’s style in real-time, absorbing their essence into his own. You called him a bastard? Every soul he’s defeated would agree.”

“I didn’t call him that,” Kraiss corrected.

“Moving on—”

Enkrid’s own style favored using a heavy blade to manage multiple foes at once. Ragna was the inverse: a grandmaster of the duel. No one was more proficient in the art of the fight. Whether it was raw genius or pure instinct, he possessed an overwhelming mastery that forced any observer to acknowledge his supremacy.

“And in a struggle so close you can feel the heat of their breath, where you’re grappling for limbs and refusing to let go, is there a person alive who could outlast Audin?”

Audin possessed an innate holiness that mended minor cuts, and his physical form was hardened beyond the strength of steel plate, making it difficult to even scratch him. Calling his endurance ‘inhuman’ was an understatement. Whether it was a messy brawl or a refined duel, if he chose to play the long game, Audin’s combat effectiveness wouldn’t falter even after seventy-two hours.

Enkrid looked back on everything he had gathered from them. He had analyzed every strength they possessed, meditating on them until he could mirror and integrate them.

Because of this, he possessed an unbreakable resolve, could survive by channeling divinity through Uske, had the sensory awareness to thrive in a melee like Rem, and had learned from Ragna how to pour his entire being into a singular ‘instant’ through total concentration. Mastering things instantly like Ragna was nearly impossible, but through daily dedication, he pondered, practiced, and eventually made those skills his own.

‘And with the knife-throwing techniques Jaxon imparted, I have lethal options even when my sword can’t reach.’

He wove it all together. Using Valen-style mercenary combat as his foundation, he adopted strategies from Lua Gharne, studied his enemies, and even found lessons in those less skilled than himself. Enkrid remained a perpetual student. That was his true secret.

“What about Jaxon?” Kraiss asked. He realized the evaluation of one of the original Mad Platoon members was missing.

“Jaxon is at a disadvantage against nearly anyone in a fair, direct fight,” Enkrid replied.

“But?” Kraiss prompted.

“If he intends to commit murder, no one is safe.”

Jaxon never showed his full hand. He had earned his status as a knight through the sheer efficiency of his killing arts. In terms of pure, formal swordsmanship, he fell short of Knight Aisia—but that didn’t matter. To Jaxon, things like non-lethal sparring or abstract techniques were irrelevant.

Could a stab kill? Was a slash required? Once he determined the path to death, he simply executed it. Even Shinar in her forest would be on edge. Even Audin, bathed in divine light, couldn’t feel secure. Even Rem in a chaotic melee would be gambling his life on every heartbeat. If Jaxon decided to end a life, he would never face Ragna in a fair duel. He would use arrows, toxins, or hidden blades if that’s what the job required.

There was another eccentricity: he didn’t use a specialized, engraved weapon. To Jaxon, the world was an armory. A snapped twig was sufficient if it could end a life. Naturally, he was also a master of various artifacts; a mere branch wouldn’t suffice against a knight.

“The leader is the most annoying of the bunch,” Jaxon had once said of himself.

He didn’t think much of a fairy’s sharp ears, but because he had taught Enkrid some of his secrets, he claimed Enkrid was his most difficult target.

“I agree with that,” Kraiss said.

Each of them was peerless in their specific niche. Jaxon’s niche was the act of killing. The verdict was simple: in a friendly match, Jaxon was the weakest; in a struggle for survival, no one could dismiss him.

—

The shaman-warrior lunged with his spear, only to have his calf muscle shredded.

He didn’t even register the wound at first. There was a faint prickling sensation, and then his leg simply gave way. Sidestepping the spear’s point, Jaxon had used a blade concealed in the base of his boot to hamsting him.

Staying low, he had shifted his foot to where the opponent would instinctively move. The mage retreated, and in that split second, Jaxon accelerated his strike, slicing with the hidden steel. Tucking weapons across the body was the first lesson of the Dagger of Geor. Beyond his boots, Jaxon had at least thirty other blades stashed away.

“Tanun!” the mage screamed as he fell. A spell ignited instantly—a feat made possible by years of tampering with his own lifeblood.

Fire flared from the blade in Jaxon’s sole. With practiced ease, he stepped out of the boot. The leather held against the heat for a heartbeat before erupting in flames and tumbling away.

Now one foot bare, Jaxon took a low stance, his back arched and his gaze fixed forward. One hand held a dripping dagger in a reverse grip; the other held a long, needle-sharp blade. Both were prized pieces from the Carmen Collection. He didn’t collect things for a shelf; he collected them for the slaughter.

The quality of the steel was exactly as advertised—superb. The grip was perfect. These were Invisible Blades—transparent weapons that were not only sightless but incredibly durable and sharp. They could hold their own against legendary engraved weapons. That was why Jaxon favored the Carmen Collection. Carmen was truly a master of his craft, and Jaxon gave him a silent nod of respect.

“Ghk—ghk.”

A feather-adorned spear hit the dirt. Its owner slumped over, dead before he hit the ground. A small blade was buried in the man’s brow. It was one of Jaxon’s primary projectiles, the Silence Knife. It was far more difficult to craft and throw than a common Whistle Dagger, but Jaxon could practically play with them.

The moment the man began his incantation, Jaxon’s left hand had blurred. The blade found its mark effortlessly. He could make that shot in total darkness.

“Kill him!” the Blood Appraiser, a vampire sorcerer, bellowed. He reacted with professional speed, immediately manipulating the pool of blood forming under his fallen comrade. He shaped the gore into long, piercing needles and fired.

Jaxon began a deadly dance with the blades in his hands.

Metallic clangs rang out in rapid succession. Twenty-six projectiles screamed toward him, and he parried every single one. His body moved with such fluidity that he left ghosts behind, appearing as a multi-armed specter.

The vampire wasn’t shocked; he had expected the defense. He didn’t panic, instead weaving his next series of hexes. He abandoned the blood on the ground and focused his internal power.

“O dweller of the abyss, wake and consume.”
“Noctua’s Gluttony.”
“Surdus’s Whisper.”

The Blood Appraiser was a master of simultaneous casting, launching three spells at once. Noctua was a light-eating owl; the spell was designed to blind the victim. Jaxon simply shut his eyes. He felt the magic coming and neutralized it by refusing to look. High-cost multi-casting was draining, and vision-stealing was a standard anti-mage tactic he knew well.

Of course, that was the vampire’s plan. Closing one’s eyes is functional blindness, isn’t it? As long as the spectral owl watched, Jaxon couldn’t risk looking.

Surdus was a deaf beast, a creature of thunderous, uncontrolled noise. This spell unleashed a concentrated blast of sound designed to shatter a target’s equilibrium.

A high-pitched ringing was the last thing Jaxon heard. A wall of sonic pressure slammed into his eardrums. Without specialized magical protection, it was impossible to block. Jaxon was hit. Silence followed.

Blind and deaf—his two primary tools for survival were gone.

The vampire coughed up a spray of blood, the price of such intense magic. The third spell pulled a champion from the remains of a fallen vampire. When vampires devolved, they became flesh-tearing monsters known as Gridir. He reached into his magical reservoir and summoned a sleeper from below—a vampire who had once possessed the skill of a knight.

It was a hidden ace, a spell fueled by the lives of his two dead companions. From the earth rose a transformed horror: a smooth, hairless gray head and a body of storm-cloud skin that radiated misery. It dragged itself out of the pit with a single, powerful arm.

Jaxon was still sensory-deprived, but he wasn’t helpless.

‘The smell.’

He could piece together a battle through scent alone. It was a skill he’d mimicked from beastfolk. He could also read the world through the vibrations in the ground. These alternative senses allowed him to vanish from the detection of even high-level knights. To survive like Jaxon, you had to perceive what others ignored.

He sensed the tremors, caught the foul stench, and acted. Spinning in place, he drove his bare heel into the head of the rising monster.

The impact was loud and solid. The creature’s neck snapped to the side, but it didn’t drop. The undead were stubborn. Jaxon tossed two blades into the air. The sudden movement drew the eyes of both the mage and the monster upward for a fraction of a second. In that window, Jaxon vanished.

He dropped his center of gravity and lunged into the creature’s blind spot. He used the Owl Step—a movement that produced no sound and moved with the speed of a raptor.

As the vampire monster looked back down and lashed out with its talons, Jaxon was already inside its guard, holding two daggers that hummed with white light. The mutant was as large as Audin, but it lacked his finesse. Its reactions were sluggish as Jaxon hugged its torso. If this had been Audin, Jaxon would have been hit with a flurry of elbows and knees before he could even get close.

‘Too slow.’

To a normal soldier, the monster was a blur, but to Jaxon, it was a laggard. He methodically buried the two blades into the gray flesh of its side and jammed another into its knee as it tried to kick. Every time his hands brushed his gear, more daggers appeared, all glowing with that same holy radiance.

After planting seven blades into its flank, knee, chest, and shoulder, Jaxon twisted away. At every entry point, the air began to hiss and tear. The former Saintess Seiki had blessed these weapons for Jaxon’s specific needs. The divinity would only last two days before fading, but that was plenty.

The mutant vampire let out a silent shriek of vibration. The air around it fractured. The creature’s form was consumed by white light and detonated, painting the area in thick, rancid blood. Jaxon, his face splattered with gore, walked to the spear on the ground and picked it up. Then, he opened his eyes.

The darkness vanished as the spell expired. Jaxon turned his head.

The vampire mage tried to form a new seal, his fingers fumbling. To Jaxon, he was moving in slow motion. Jaxon might be a killer, but he possessed the physical engine of a knight. He drew the spear back and launched it.

The weapon tore through the air and shattered the mage’s skull. The vampire was pinned and instantly incinerated by the lingering holy energy before being blown back.

Even if he had dodged, Jaxon was ready with a Silence Knife, but the mage hadn’t moved. More accurately, someone had held him in place.

Behind the corpse stood a man with a flail. He tapped his ear and tilted his head, questioning if Jaxon was still deaf.

“I can read your lips,” Jaxon said, his hand already on a blade in his sleeve.

“Ah, lip-reading? I suppose someone like you would find that basic,” the man said, smiling as he walked forward. He didn’t look at the hidden blade, but Jaxon knew the man was aware of it. He stopped five paces away—striking distance.

“We can talk properly when your hearing returns,” the man grinned. “My name is Pustis. I’m with the Mud Order of Knights.”

Jaxon never imagined he would define himself this way, but the words came out naturally.

“Jaxon, of the Mad Order of Knights.”

That was his home now. He wasn’t just an assassin anymore; he was a shield for those behind him. He felt a surge of purpose stronger than any he’d known. To his own surprise, Jaxon smiled. He suspected he had picked up the habit from his captain. It was a bit embarrassing, but the pride he felt was worth it.

“You’re laughing?” the opponent asked, reacting to the expression.