Chapter 885

Chapter 885

Ferdinand, a member of the Red Cloak Order of Knights, reflected on a conflict he had witnessed in the recent past.
‘Was that a clash where success was certain? Was the outcome a foregone conclusion?’
He contemplated the memory repeatedly, arriving at a negative verdict. They hadn’t proceeded as if the result were set in stone. Nor had they taken action based on cold calculation.
‘They behaved like stampeding stallions.’
He wasn’t pointing to a single individual. The entire Mad Order of Knights had radiated that same energy.
‘Treating their very frames as holy relics to maintain their position.’
Soaring on winged steeds and causing chaos amidst gryphons. It wasn’t merely a matter of slaying a few beasts. They had literally engaged in combat while leaping across the backs of the gryphons. The display was enough to evoke the image of the lord Ferdinand served.
He hadn’t voiced his praise aloud when he observed it, but astonishment was unavoidable. The spectacle had been that arresting.
As a junior knight, Ferdinand had once led a subordinate squad within the knightly order, and at a certain point, he had developed a “gut feeling” for assessing the tide of war.
‘This is a losing effort.’
He would evaluate the likelihood of triumph or collapse before the first blow was even struck. One might call it a spiritual awakening, but it was just as accurate to label it a long-standing habit. If a leader wished to save the life of even one extra soldier under their command, they had to be proficient at math. That was what he deemed the hallmark of a quality officer.
Even after ascending to the rank of junior knight, this tendency persisted. It had evolved into his personal trademark.
The benefit of this trait was that whether a battle was destined for victory or ruin, he never grew overconfident or sloppy.
Instead of unpredictable skirmishes driven by raw passion, his education, his refinement, and his engagements had focused on analyzing and seeking practical paths to success. Consequently, he steered clear of engagements that promised nothing but defeat.
If it were for the sake of his lord or his brothers-in-arms, he would stand his ground even in the face of certain failure, but could he find pleasure in it? Could he mirror those who were branded as lunatics?
‘I am not built that way.’
Ferdinand was acutely aware of his own nature. He stared directly at his own boundaries.
‘Should I then conclude my journey here?’
The inquiry struck deep. The morning light stung his vision. The distant southern horizon stretched out before him.
Ferdinand had offered to perform a scouting task and was patrolling the perimeter. Mid-stride, he paused and tilted his head upward. In the distance, a minute dark dot had emerged. It was the transition point where the previous day’s twilight vanished and a fresh dawn arrived.
The vision of a junior knight far surpassed that of commoners, and the Red Cloak Order had, for many lifetimes, practiced arts that temporarily sharpened the senses. It was a core component of the order’s discipline.
Ferdinand’s eyes widened, shifting into a focus specialized for long-distance observation. The moment he identified the threat, he pivoted.
If they were visible to him from this range, he was visible to them.
Discarding any attempt at secrecy, he bolted back toward the primary encampment. Each time his boots hit the ground, earth and gravel erupted with a rhythmic thudding sound.

—

‘Venom.’
This was the first time Jaxon had encountered that specific title, but the figure’s former moniker was one Jaxon recognized.
‘Miasma.’
A term associated with tainted atmosphere and lethal gases. Having accidentally consumed a toxic plant shortly after birth and remaining a dwarf for the rest of his life, the individual known as Venom was originally of mixed-blood fairy heritage.
‘Hasn’t that creature lived for over a century?’
Jaxon recalled hearing that Venom had once traded blows with Jaxon’s own mentor.
“That dwarf brat is still scurrying about. Did I fail? Does your lord—no, your mentor, teacher, and guardian—seem that weak to you?”
Jaxon had never addressed the man as father, yet for some reason, the term guardian was being used by the mentor himself. It was a day Jaxon found baffling.
“Naturally, I emerged victorious.”
The mentor had remarked with a smirk, one eye shimmering a vivid, sickly shade of blue. It wasn’t a bruise from a punch; a blade had cut him and toxin had entered the wound. A single error and that eye would have been lost to darkness. In truth, the sight in that eye had been severely impaired since that day.
“Perhaps you should stop boasting and focus on purging that toxin, Master.”
“It will clear out on its own eventually. Regardless, that cursed dwarf will be spreading filth wherever Venom wanders. The next time our paths cross, I will end them.”
Master, you really ought to have stayed true to that intent.
Jaxon cursed silently and shifted his balance to his left leg, dropping into a crouch. Having lowered his center of gravity, he raised both short blades to protect his head and his left leg.
This wasn’t a basic defensive posture. He allowed the core tenets of fluid sword-styles to saturate his entire frame. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before pieces of his body were being torn away.
Clang-clang!
The spiked weights of Pustis’s flail darted as if the three iron spheres possessed their own will. It felt identical to parrying three separate swords simultaneously.
Of course, it was an engraved weapon wielded by a true knight. This level of skill was only to be expected.
Following that, a sword aiming for the right side of his skull exhibited motions akin to a lash. Pustis struck with his arm loosening and snapping, accelerating the steel—a method that delivered a cut as rapid as a northern warrior’s axe. He had effectively integrated the physics of a whip into a straight blade. It was a unique style of combat. In the gaps between these strikes, Miasma—the dwarf known as Venom—sought an opening.
“More than just a poisoner, that dwarf is a natural-born slayer. A hideous little thing.”
The mentor had noted that as well. The title Miasma had once belonged to a fabled killer whose reputation spanned the continent—a master of toxins and shadow-work.
The dwarf launched a Silence Knife. Even within the Dagger of Geor, besides Jaxon himself, only two others possessed the skill to utilize that specific blade.
Venom manipulated even a projectile stripped down to its bare metal with total proficiency. Furthermore, the dwarf selected trajectories and moments that were nearly impossible to counter even with prior warning.
Jaxon spiraled through the air, twisting his trunk and snapping his legs straight, then came to a dead stop.
The Silence Knife whistled through the exact space he would have occupied had he completed his dodge. It was a strike delivered with eerie foresight.
The instant he halted, the flail struck again, and the whip-sword suddenly transitioned into a spear-like lunge. The arm that had been snapping like a lash abruptly stiffened into a deep puncture attempt. Simultaneously, Jaxon intercepted four small bolts aimed at his back. There was no room to catch his breath. Even so, he maintained his rhythm of parrying and evading.
“Why won’t you fall?”
The query originated from the mixed-blood fairy who had physically evolved into a dwarf. Saturated with toxin, enduring lopsided pressure from three foes at once—how was Jaxon still standing? The voice dripped with disbelief and confusion, yet even that was a trick.
The speech came from the left, but the bolts arrived from the right.
Such was the peril. A second that felt as though the end was touching his skin, yet in that interval, a grin touched Jaxon’s lips.
‘I can manage this.’
The hours he had logged with the northern warrior, the distracted navigator, the bear-man, and the commander were finally bearing fruit.
Even when those companions lost their cool and brawled, they swung their axes and threw their punches and lunged with their steel with genuine intent.
Spotting a crack in their defense, Jaxon released a Silence Knife. Without telegraphing the throw with a body turn, he merely extended his arm toward the heavens.
The blade traveled without a sound, targeting the bridge of Pustis’s nose. Its path followed a descending arc from the sky. Throwing-blade forms were not merely about hurls in a straight line.
The rotation of the wrist and the specific grip on the steel—everything worked in harmony to send the weapon on an improbable course.
‘The gliding flight of a knife-bird.’
Swift Gliding—a method where the steel seemed to catch the breeze, sliding through the air before impact. Naturally, he had infused it with Will. It possessed the force necessary to penetrate a knight’s steel casing and kill.
Beyond that, he neutralized all killing intent. To vanish one’s murderous aura, one needed the skill of concentrating not on the target, but on the art itself. One could say he focused on the beauty of the execution rather than the fatality.
For Jaxon, this was second nature. The blade he cast slipped even beyond Venom’s perception. Judged solely on the merits of assassination, Jaxon was the superior practitioner.
Venom’s touted multi-toxin had compromised him, but thanks to the rigorous poison-resistance drills forced on him by his mentor, Jaxon’s constitution was holding firm. The vertigo and sickness could be suppressed with mental fortitude.
It was just before the strike Jaxon would never employ on an ally buried itself in Pustis’s skull.
The Silence Knife Jaxon utilized was a custom blade roughly the length of his first two fingers joined together. Diminutive, yet if it found a home in a person’s head, it was more than lethal, and its durability was top-tier.
The moment the dagger left his hand, Jaxon sprang backward, avoiding the flail and the whip-sword. He created a significant gap in distance and performed a flip. His retreat path defied logic, and even Venom hesitated to pursue, caught in the uncertainty of whether to throw the remaining dagger or hold it.
Just before the silent, intention-free blade reached its mark, a metal plate slid into its path.
Thud—!
Jaxon’s ultimate strike was neutralized. A shield attached to a forearm intercepted the knife. The defender adjusted their posture and sent the blade spinning away.
Jaxon couldn’t perceive the entire sequence, but seeing the conclusion, he grasped the reality. Someone who had been observing the duel from the sidelines had finally stepped in.
The gliding flight of a knife-bird was nearly invisible at a short distance. Even Venom, the famed killer of toxins and stealth, had failed to see it coming.
A knight who had been waiting in the wings had entered the fray and ruined the gambit. From the perspective of the Mud Order, it was the correct tactical move.
“Quite a feat.”
The newcomer remarked, pacing forward. Oval bucklers were fastened to both wrists. No other weaponry was in sight. Those were the knight’s engraved tools.
“The leader says to conclude this quickly. The mire has expanded so far that hundreds of soldiers have already perished. If we don’t act, the entire battalion will be destroyed.”
The newcomer reported. That brought the tally to four knight-class adversaries. Jaxon was single-handedly occupying four elites.
The irony was that just a moment ago, Jaxon appeared to be losing ground—yet he had nearly eliminated three of them.
Had that knife lodged in Pustis’s skull as a permanent fixture, that would have been the outcome.
“I told you, this one is an anomaly.”
Pustis wasn’t shocked by the opponent’s capability. From the start, this had been an individual too formidable to face alone.
“Did you intentionally throw it outside my field of vision?”
Venom spoke, his pride wounded. The dwarf also possessed profound expertise in the arts of the kill. From that single maneuver, Venom understood that the opponent’s prowess surpassed his own. That realization gnawed at Venom’s ego. And that wasn’t the only irritation.
Due to the frantic combat, Jaxon’s face-covering had long since fallen away. His features were revealed. It was a face that, even in a casual stroll through Border Guard City, would capture the hearts of many women.
Venom’s expression soured. Since childhood, the dwarf had been consumed by a deep insecurity regarding his looks. After being scarred by poison and having his form turned into something monstrous, that bitterness had only intensified.
“I’ll strip the skin from that pretty face.”
And the opponent was more talented to boot?
Wasn’t this just like that irritating leader of the Dagger of Geor from the past?
Regardless of Venom’s threats, Jaxon kept his gaze fixed ahead. The fourth knight to join appeared to be a close-quarters expert, based on the equipment.
“I will engage him directly. Strike from his blind spot while I do. Venom, stop polluting the air. Use your steel instead.”
“I don’t need your instructions to know that.”
The one who had just arrived naturally took charge of the group’s momentum. Jaxon still wore a subtle grin.
‘This as well.’
Is enjoyable.
It was no wonder the commander spoke of finding joy for no particular reason. Was it because this wasn’t about taking life, but about safeguarding it?
Or was it because Jaxon’s own heart had shifted?
Whatever the cause, it was fun.
That rush and exhilaration. Even if this was the conclusion, even if it seemed certain he would fall, it would be a satisfying end.
The combination of these feelings caused Jaxon to speak.
“Are four of you all that can be spared?”
“No, five.”
The reply came from behind the shield-wielder. This individual had hair long enough to obscure their eyes. The frame was massive, with dense musculature visible everywhere. Not quite a giant, but enough to make any observer stare in awe.
It would be a humorous sight to see this one standing next to the bear-man.
‘If even one of those lunatics were here, it would be far more entertaining.’
He didn’t even wish for the commander. If even one among the northern warrior, the flighty navigator, or the bear-man were present, the tide of this fight would have turned.
He couldn’t rely on reinforcements. Esther was at his back. She had performed a feat that altered the very geography of the land.
By herself, she had trapped three thousand troops in the marsh and halted their progress. If a knight was valued as one against a thousand, she was currently holding back three thousand.
In the midst of such a feat, how could he expect her to come over and clear out a few knights for him?
Most importantly, she was a sorceress. Even if she was familiar with combat, her expertise was distinct from clashing with multiple knights at once.
‘That goes for me too.’
Still, there was no other choice; this was the hand he was dealt.
He twirled the two blades in his hands. His limbs were still functional, and his steel was intact. His drive to fight was more potent than ever.
‘I will defend.’
Jaxon’s resolve did not falter.
“Barik of the Mud Order.”
The foe introduced himself. The name didn’t quite seem to fit, but his eyes were large and surprisingly soft. Barik gripped a single knife in his right hand.
However, he wore armor completely covered in spikes. Forearms, shins, chest—all were thick with razor-sharp points.
‘Another specialist in close-range grappling.’
Both of the last two arrivals seemed to be the type who relished brawls where you fought tooth and nail. For Jaxon, that was a disadvantage.
In this scenario, it was more difficult to deal with those who charged with reckless abandon than those who stayed back to strategize and weigh their options.
“The sorceress’s magic is quite something. On my way here, mud-covered hands rose from the swamp to seize my legs.”
If left unchecked, the entire battalion would be swallowed by catastrophe. The Mud Order’s leader’s path was obvious.
Smash through the obstacle and kill the source of the magic. It was a strategy born from extensive experience battling mages. And the man standing in their way was equally lethal.
Therefore, all five would engage this single target. Meanwhile, every junior knight would be dispatched to pressure the sorceress.
The Mud Order always chose the path most likely to ensure survival, and this was the most logical and efficient route.
If all five knights coordinated, at the very least, none of them would fall—that was the basis of Barik’s strategy.
“Look, just walk away quietly. There’s no need for your life to end here, is there?”
Pustis spoke up. He sincerely felt it would be a shame for an opponent of this caliber to die. Rather than perish here, wouldn’t it be better to save the fight for another day? A warrior of this grade was a rarity.
Jaxon replied through movement. He crossed his daggers in an X-shape over his chest and settled into his stance. His legs were positioned at a stable width, and he consciously relaxed his muscles. If he allowed himself to become stiff, he would be dead in a heartbeat. Jaxon understood this well.
“Eliminate him.”
Barik, the commander, gave the word. Commands were final. All of them lunged.
Swords, fists, daggers, and the flail converged on him.
Out of countless possible outcomes, only a single path led to survival. Time and again, Jaxon defied impossible odds.
If one measured the sequence of strikes and blocks, he had navigated more than eight lethal exchanges. Was it a miracle? Was it raw talent? Some would label it a miracle.
In terms of duration, only enough seconds had passed for five quick breaths.
Pustis, and even Barik, were struck with admiration.
If he failed, he died. That was a reality that remained constant. And the opponent still had the mobility to flee. Which meant: even though an exit existed, Jaxon refused to move. If there was a duty to fulfill and a life to guard, he simply stood his ground.
Did this not define the nature of knights?
“Jaxon of the Mad Order of Knights—I will keep that name in mind.”
Pustis eventually spoke, having maneuvered behind the defender. Jaxon forced his left arm to move through pure determination.
He had traded one arm to pierce the leg of the one who used dual whip-swords, but in the end, five opponents were too many to hold off alone.
The end was near. A death he accepted with clarity, and one characterized by joy.
Images of his beloved surfaced, and he felt a desire to leave a message: from the chaotic days until now, it had been a true pleasure.
The commander would be furious. Absolutely livid. The northern warrior would probably just laugh while trying to restrain the others? With a grin, that one would tear them all to shreds. The lazy navigator and the bear-man would do the same.
It was an interval too brief for a single blink. Had it been even a moment later, Jaxon would have perished and been sent to the afterlife.
Kwoooom!
A bolt of lightning crashed down. A strike from a cloudless sky tore into the earth and sent plumes of dirt into the air.
Then, from above, a thunderous roar echoed as something descended.
Boom!
A series of sonic booms erupted, and in front of Jaxon, a dark green barrier appeared.
The fabric of a cloak snapped in the wind as a figure stepped in.
In the moment the opening was created, the voice of the man who had once dragged Jaxon back from the brink of death echoed in his ears.
“I hope you haven’t used up all your stamina.”
Jaxon spat out the venom he had been holding in his mouth. It was the result of painstakingly concentrating the toxins that had entered his system during Venom’s initial strike. Jaxon hadn’t known what the outcome would be, but because he hadn’t surrendered, he had pooled the poison that had circulated through him.
Expelling it meant he would need a moment to recover. Only now had a pause appeared that allowed him to clear it out.
“I have plenty of fight left in me.”
Jaxon, having cleared the poison, gave his answer.