Chapter 884

Chapter 884

“Honestly, I really was hoping to cross paths with one of you. I would have been quite let down if you had all already departed for the front lines and left no one behind.”

Pustis wasn’t lying. He possessed a genuine desire to test his skills against them. He had heard the legends of their exploits until his ears were weary of the repetition.

‘A blossom rising from the mire.’
A gem concealed within the rubble.

This was a narrative that the members of the Mud Order of Knights held close to their hearts. The story followed the familiar arc of a lowly underdog rising through sheer grit and a bit of fortune—it resonated with them deeply because it felt like their own biography. They, too, had crawled from the bottom of the social ladder to reach the heights of knighthood.

In Pustis’s eyes, the Mad Order of Knights were kindred spirits to the Mud Order.

‘From the rank-and-file to the elite.’

He imagined the journey they must have taken, from being labeled as mere hooligans to standing where they were today. It sparked a complicated mix of emotions within him: a sense of brotherhood on one hand, and a fierce rivalry on the other. He felt that the Mud Order should be the sole owners of such a legacy, which bred a dark urge to snuff out these competitors. regardless of the specific motivation, his focus was absolute.

“Is your hearing coming back to you now?”

As Pustis spoke, Jaxon’s auditory senses were indeed beginning to stabilize.

“Do you require a moment to catch your breath, perhaps?”

Behind the commander, a common soldier was swallowed by the treacherous marsh, letting out a final, desperate cry, but Pustis didn’t even flinch. His composure was unshakable. The loss of his subordinates meant nothing to him. Meanwhile, Jaxon moved to retrieve the pair of blades he had discarded earlier. He intentionally left himself exposed during the movement to bait an attack, but Pustis remained stationary.

Pustis simply waited, rotating his wrists to keep his blood flowing. He performed a series of rhythmic stretches, loosening his joints from his ankles upward with the practiced ease of someone who had done this thousands of times. He was a specialist in dueling other knights—perfectly balanced between tension and anticipation. He was a natural predator with a vast reservoir of combat experience.

“If you’re so intent on waiting, why don’t we just pick this up tomorrow morning? Let’s call a truce for tonight and head back,” Jaxon suggested with a shrug, acting as if it were a perfectly reasonable request.

“……Ha! You’ve certainly got some nerve,” Pustis remarked after a brief pause. To him, the audacity of the reply was almost admirable.

It was clear that Jaxon had spent significant time around Enkrid. By mimicking Enkrid’s particular brand of irreverent banter, Jaxon managed to create a tiny tremor in his opponent’s focus. However, that lapse was fleeting. Pustis gave Jaxon a nod of respect; recognizing that he wouldn’t win a war of words, he relied on his seasoned intuition to accept the absurdity of the situation—much like the warrior standing across from him.

“I’m afraid I can’t grant you that much leeway,” the commander replied with a smirk.

His judgment, his posture, and his aura were all top-tier. He was the definition of a true knight. Jaxon shifted his focus past the man. While Pustis was a formidable presence, Jaxon’s instincts were screaming about a much more immediate and dizzying threat nearby. This was a refined sense of danger, honed over years of surviving the impossible.

Pustis had just stood by as a mage was executed, treating the event with the same indifference one might show toward crushing a gnat. He had the luxury of confidence. He clearly believed that magic was either a secondary variable or a nuisance that he could easily overcome.

‘He either thinks magic is a hindrance or he simply despises those who use it.’

The exact reason didn’t matter. What mattered was the enemy’s absolute certainty of their success.

“How many of you are here?” Jaxon inquired. He didn’t need to be specific; the context was clear. He was asking for the number of knights.

“Five.”

The Mud Order consisted of seven knights in total. Since two were currently assigned to the High Pontiff’s personal guard, it meant their entire available force had arrived.

“Our mission in this conflict is simple: neutralize the Border Guard. That is our only concern.”

Pustis spoke as if this information wasn’t even worth keeping secret. Jaxon pressed further.

“And what about the defensive line being held by Sir Cypress?”

“Ah, you people are operating under a major misconception.”

Jaxon waited for the explanation. Up until this point, Pustis had been talking casually to mask his true intent: waiting for Jaxon to drop his guard for a split second. To a knight of his caliber, a gap of five paces was practically zero distance, especially for a man who specialized in explosive, high-speed charges.

*Boom—*

The air seemed to fold in on itself before detonating. A geyser of mud erupted from the earth, and the flail—a heavy iron mace with three spiked weights—swung toward Jaxon’s skull before the sound of the movement even registered.

Yet, there was no spray of blood or shattered bone. Pustis’s weapon merely whistled through the space where Jaxon had been standing a moment before. Among the members of the Mad Order of Knights, Jaxon possessed the sharpest reflexes. The second Pustis committed to the strike, Jaxon had anticipated the trajectory and leaped clear. He was the hardest man in the entire order to catch off guard.

“You’re swinging at a ghost,” Jaxon remarked flatly, his arms relaxed with daggers held low.

Pustis wasn’t the only one who lived for combat against other knights. Jaxon lived among a pack of lunatics who were constantly trying to catch him unawares or dragging him into brutal brawls. Avoiding a strike like that was a routine part of his day.

*Clatter.*

The chains of the flail rattled as Pustis pulled the weapon back, returning instantly to his starting stance.

“You actually dodged that,” Pustis noted.

He had launched the attack in the middle of a sentence—a classic maneuver from the Valen-style mercenary handbook. In the southern regions, the “phantom-sword” lineages were legendary, and many had integrated the pragmatic, lethal techniques of Valen-style into their repertoire.

“What misconception were you talking about?” Jaxon asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

Pustis grinned. This man was surprisingly composed. Even after learning he was outnumbered five to one, he showed no signs of panic. Was he relying on the mage behind him? Pustis accelerated his mental processing, sharpening his intent as he answered.

“The misconception that we need more than one order to dismantle your entire kingdom.”

If knights were the true measure of a nation’s power, Pustis’s boast carried weight. Jaxon did a quick mental tally. It was a short list. Even excluding their newest recruit, they had ten knights, including himself.

“Are you aware of the headcount of the Mad Order?”

“What about it?”

“There are ten of us.”

*And only five of you.* The implication hung heavy in the air.

“True, but at this very moment, you’re standing all by yourself, aren’t you?” Pustis retorted, his smile widening as he kicked up a spray of dirt with his boot.

*Fwoosh—*

The cloud of debris momentarily blinded Jaxon. Simultaneously, the heavy end of the flail curved in toward Jaxon’s left side. Pustis was already planning his next move: the moment Jaxon dodged the flail, Pustis would follow up with a snap-kick to his vitals. He intended to chain his attacks into a relentless barrage that left no room for his opponent to breathe.

Jaxon moved precisely the way Pustis predicted he would. He knew that deviating from an opponent’s expectation was only useful if done at the exact right moment. He also knew that a single opening was all he needed to end a life, even in a head-on confrontation.

However, Jaxon had underestimated the specific nature of the Mud Order.

As he slipped past the flail’s path and avoided the follow-up kick, a sharp, cold sting pierced his left hip. His intuition screamed at him like a thunderclap. Reacting on pure instinct, Jaxon slammed his left elbow downward.

*Crack!*

He felt his elbow collide with something metallic. His hidden attacker had parried with a reinforced forearm guard before vanishing back into the shadows.

“……Hoh.”

A dark blur that had tried to gut him retreated into the gloom. Jaxon’s eyes tracked the figure. It was a diminutive creature, its head barely reaching his chest. It had the elongated ears of a sprite but the ruddy, stout cheeks of a dwarf. Long, snowy eyebrows framed a face etched with deep wrinkles, and the small monster let out a sound of genuine surprise.

“You actually caught that. But I suspect you didn’t catch all of it, did you?”

Jaxon didn’t make a sound. He focused on the sensation in his side where the weapon had grazed him.

‘A needle? No, an awl.’

The creature was a dwarf-fairy hybrid. It kept its hands tucked behind its back, concealing its weaponry. Jaxon didn’t need to see them to understand what he was dealing with. The creature wore wide sleeves hiding specialized vambraces and an arsenal of concealed tools. Jaxon recognized the style immediately.

He was fighting a mirror image of himself.

As blood began to soak into his clothes, a cold numbness started to spread from the puncture wound.

“I don’t suppose I need to apologize, do I? I said I’d wait for you to be ready, but I never promised a fair one-on-one. The Mud Order uses every tool at its disposal to secure a win. That is our creed,” Pustis said, his voice dripping with a mocking tone that was genuinely irritating.

Yet, Jaxon remained focused. He analyzed the creeping paralysis.

‘A toxin.’

It was a variant he had never encountered before—a complex cocktail of botanical, mineral, and animal poisons. It was a custom brew, unique to the user. Jaxon had been conditioned against poisons since he was a child, giving him a high threshold for most toxins, but this was different.

“Mine is quite unique, young man,” the dwarf remarked. He was right. Jaxon began to feel a faint lightheadedness and a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

“Phew.” Jaxon exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

“Should I join the festivities as well?”

A third knight stepped into the clearing. This one carried a pair of swords crossed on his back. The blades were shorter than standard military swords, but the knight possessed unusually long, simian arms. The hilts were positioned high over his shoulders for a lightning-fast draw.

“By all means, jump in. If I were on my own, I might have actually struggled. This one is exceptionally talented,” Pustis admitted. He was the type of warrior who respected his enemy’s skill but was more than willing to fight dirty to ensure his own survival.

The knightly orders of Rihinstetten generally fell into two camps: the traditionalists and those who utilized modern, unorthodox training. The Mud Order was firmly in the former category. They were survivors who passed down practical, lethal techniques through the generations. This was why each southern order had such a distinct and ruthless identity.

“If Venom hadn’t landed that prick, he likely would have used some hidden trick or projectile to catch me off guard. Regardless, he wouldn’t have just stood there,” Pustis continued.

Jaxon ignored their banter, taking a long look at the three of them. If he were free to retreat and hunt them on his own terms—using stealth and distance—he was confident he could kill all three. If he could pick the time and place, this would be a simple task. If he chose to run now and fight another day, his chances of success would skyrocket.

“Once we clear you out of the way, there’s a mage back there, right? Our target is the mage. Move aside.”

Pustis ‘the Observer’ was a fitting title. His ability to read an opponent’s habits and fighting style was uncanny. He had already deciphered Jaxon’s core discipline.

‘A master of the killing arts.’

Within the Mud Order, the dwarf named Venom fulfilled that same role. By comparing Jaxon to Venom, Pustis could easily deduce why Jaxon was choosing to stand his ground despite the overwhelming disadvantage.

“If you just step out of the path, everyone wins. We get the mage, and you get to keep your life.”

Jaxon let out a dry laugh. It was ironic that in a moment of near-certain death, he finally understood what drove Enkrid. He was fighting because there was someone behind him who needed protection. This wasn’t a job for coin; it was a stand for a comrade. Five years ago, Jaxon wouldn’t have recognized himself.

“Stop talking and try to move me.”

As the words left his lips, Jaxon spun his daggers into a reverse grip. One of his hands appeared to be empty, but the way his fingers were curled suggested he was holding something. During the brief exchange, he had already cleaned the Invisible Blade, rendering it once again a ghost in the air.

Jaxon was at peace. His resolve didn’t waver. Taking on three knights in a frontal assault was against every instinct he had as an assassin, but he accepted it.

‘If it must be done…’

Then it would be done. Just as Enkrid would have done, Jaxon would see it through.

‘I’m taking all three of you to hell with me.’

If this was the end, he would ensure he had company on the other side. Jaxon’s eyes, usually cold and detached, were now burning with a rare, terrifying intensity.

“You won’t even catch a glimpse of our mage while I’m breathing. And if she sees what’s left of you, she’ll make sure you can’t even look at her anyway.”

“Still got a sharp tongue, I see,” Pustis retorted.

Even as they spoke, Venom blurred and faded into the shadows, while the dual-wielding knight unsheathed his blades. Directly in front of him, Pustis began to whirl his flail above his head.

*Kwoooom, kwoooom.*

The heavy iron weights tore through the air, the sound becoming a deafening roar.