Chapter 893

Chapter 893

The proprietor of the establishment gripped a mace, his complexion several shades deeper than Nurat’s. Rumors often spoke of the dark-skinned peoples inhabiting the southern territories, and this man seemed to be the living embodiment of those tales. Ragna found himself unable to immediately categorize the man’s power level. He had to wonder what that implied.

‘This is a man who understands the art of combat.’

While Enkrid utilized a complex hierarchy for the knighthood, Ragna’s internal world was governed by a binary system. First, there were those who could not fight. Whether they were titled squires or full knights was irrelevant; if they lacked the essence of combat, they were all the same to him. Second, there were those who could fight. The line between these two groups was stark and definitive: could Ragna instantly perceive the depth of their talent with a glance, or was it obscured?

The man began to rotate the mace in his palm. A faint, azure glow shimmered along the hexagonal metal head. While Valerian steel was common, there were higher grades known as true steel; this was a specialized, engraved instrument crafted from a metal of comparable durability.

Ragna kept his eyes locked on the man’s gaze. In truth, he was already physically and mentally primed for the engagement. Though his expression appeared vacant and lethargic, Ragna’s peripheral vision encompassed every inch of his opponent’s frame. The twirling of the mace was a transparent psychological ploy. Even as the metal spun, the man’s shoulder alignment remained perfectly still.

Ragna had possessed this intuition since childhood. While he currently monitored the tension in the shoulders, there were moments he could predict a strike simply by the positioning of a foe’s toes. This encounter was no different.

“Just passing through? What kind of nonsense is that? You didn’t come this far just to commit suicide. Who are you, really?”

Ragna sensed that this individual was the type who couldn’t help but interrogate people. It was a gut feeling, but it hit the mark.

“Hey, I asked you a question. What are you?”

He repeated the demand, wrapping both hands around the mace’s grip and pulling it back into a chambered position. To an untrained eye, the posture seemed careless, but the way he balanced the weight was masterful. His proficiency was so high that his relaxed state was actually a sign of extreme readiness.

This was the real thing. He possessed the raw presence of a true knight. The man’s aura condensed and solidified. Without even trying, he had reached a state where the very nature of his Will began to manifest physically.

‘Ragna the Madman.’

With that thought, Ragna gave a succinct reply.

“What? You’re a lunatic. You actually barged in here?” the man retorted, matching Ragna’s brevity.

Even during the verbal exchange, Ragna’s mind was dissecting the man. He analyzed the likely trajectories of the mace. That massive weapon would likely be wielded with the same mechanical principles as a heavy greatsword.

‘If I attempt to evade, I relinquish the initiative and allow him to pin me down.’

Conversely, if he attempted to parry, the sheer kinetic energy would likely shatter his guard or deaden his nerves. This opponent surely had more than just basic vertical or lateral swings in his repertoire. He would likely be an expert in close-quarters grappling—syncing his limbs to move on different beats than the mace itself.

Actually, Ragna was certain of it. To fight any other way with such a weapon would be inefficient.

‘The more I focus on blocking, the deeper the disadvantage grows.’

Evasion led to being cornered; blocking would allow the man to stack impact forces until Ragna’s hands went numb. Even without a single clash of steel, the core philosophy of the man’s style was laid bare. A subtle shimmer entered Ragna’s eyes. His intent was now focused on a single goal: ending the man’s life. That concentrated resolve transformed into a crushing wave of killing intent directed at the owner.

“You? You’ve got a lot of nerve, don’t you?”

The man felt the weight of that murderous aura and questioned him. *You’re not planning to flee—you’re actually going to challenge me?*

“Do I look like an easy target to you?”

The man talked incessantly. He wouldn’t stop chattering. Ragna knew exactly how to handle such people. He waited for the perfect opening and delivered a one-word verdict.

“Yeah.”

“Die.”

The man spat the word with pure rage. Once again, Ragna’s provocation had hit home.

—

A group of commanders began to pull back, dragging away the soldiers whose lines had crumbled. Because a solitary madman had crashed through their ranks, the lead unit had been sliced in half. One commander took charge of the remaining men to restore order. It was a textbook recovery. A freak of nature should be countered by another freak of nature.

‘To hell with this.’

The commander cursed under his breath while gesturing wildly to his troops.

“Keep moving! Advance! Don’t you dare look back!”

The sole remaining elephant lumbered forward. It was the only one that had survived the initial chaos. The handler cracked his whip aggressively, forcing the beast onward.

CRACK! CRACK!

*GRAAAH!*

The lash likely barely registered on the beast’s thick hide, but after years of conditioning to recognize the command of the whip, the elephant continued its heavy march.

“Forward, keep going.”

The handler whispered to himself.

‘Could a Naurillia knight have really penetrated this deep?’

It was illogical. He couldn’t grasp the motivation.

‘Are they trying to create a diversion because they’re losing?’

But to waste the stamina of a knight in such a way? It was lunacy. Knights were flesh and blood; if they were surrounded and swarmed by spears, they would fall. If he had made it this far, he should have had allies supporting him. The enemy had made a tactical blunder.

“Ignore it. We’re pushing through.”

The voice of his partner on the back of the beast reached him. No matter what was happening behind them, they were the vanguard—their objective was the enemy’s heart. For a handler focused entirely on steering the elephant, the priority was simply staying clear of that human monster.

Consequently, when the elephant’s skull suddenly erupted into fragments, the handler didn’t even have time to process it before he was flattened.

*WOOOOOOONG!*

A violent roar that seemed to split the atmosphere echoed out, followed by a shockwave of compressed air. The projectile launched by that shockwave hit the elephant’s head with the force of a falling mountain, turning bone and brain into something as fragile as an overripe melon.

*BOOM!*

The shattered head sprayed gore in every direction as the massive creature swayed and collapsed.

*BWOOOOOOO—, CRASH!*

Even in death, a titan made a titan’s noise. A thick cloud of dust billowed upward. The rider perched on the headless corpse was paralyzed with shock, unable to even let out a cry before the weight of the beast crushed the life out of him. Because he landed face-down, a wet “Kk—” was the only sound he managed. The other survivor had his midsection pulverized, his internal organs spilling out as he choked on his own final screams.

“Always leaves a mess at the end, that guy.”

The destruction was, of course, Rem’s doing. As he retrieved the sling he had just deployed, he gave a playful shove to the beastkin standing next to him.

“What’s the holdup?”

“I’m getting ready to fight, aren’t I?”

Dunbakel could scent foul odors approaching from every side. When the allied knights moved, the opposition responded in kind. It was the natural rhythm of the battlefield. Wasn’t it time they went out to meet them?

“Why are you making such a scene in the middle of the enemy lines like a fool? Just take out the elephants and the giants and get moving.”

Rem gave the order, and Dunbakel didn’t bother to argue. If there was a more efficient path than following her own whims, she followed it. It was a lesson she had mastered long before heading east.

“Fine. We’ll go with a hit-and-run tactic. Thoroughly cheap, foul, and dirty.”

“Why the extra adjectives—cheap, foul, and dirty?”

“I’m a beastkin. I tell it like it is.”

Rem swung his axe in a wide arc. Dunbakel tucked her head and rolled beneath the blade. *PANG!* The sound of the air breaking was deafening. To an observer, it would look like a lethal strike disguised as a joke. Within the ranks of the Madman Knights, however, this passed for a friendly nudge.

“…I can’t exactly butcher everyone here and then just leave. The Boss is going to owe me for this.”

After his single swing, Rem found his footing and grumbled. Usually, in these scenarios, their leader would be the one acting on impulse. Having to step up and fill that role made Rem’s blood boil slightly—not with genuine anger, but with the thrill of the hunt. He particularly enjoyed battles where he held all the cards. There was also a sense of duty; if the second-in-command didn’t take charge, who would?

“Hey, let’s move. Something nasty is coming our way.”

Rem and Dunbakel both turned their heads in unison. The fur on Dunbakel’s neck stood on end. Her skin crawled. Her primal instincts were screaming.

“Are we really not going to help him?”

She looked toward the sector where that unfortunate, directionally challenged swordsman was currently engaged.

“If he falls, then that was his destiny,” Rem replied coldly.

“Fair point,” Dunbakel conceded. Rem found himself liking that pragmatic response.

“I’ll forgive your earlier lip just this once. Let’s go.”

The pair took off. Both Rem and Dunbakel possessed the explosive speed to outrun a horse over a sprint. While Ragna had neutralized two targets and Rem had taken out one in the rear, several elephants remained.

“Peekaboo!”

Rem picked out another elephant’s skull and hurled a throwing axe with terrifying precision. Meanwhile, Dunbakel went after the targets that towered over the human infantry.

The giants’ scale and unnatural power made them, without hyperbole, the most formidable warriors among the sentient races. They possessed strength that eclipsed the Frokk, and their skin was as hard as iron from the moment of birth. Their inherent bloodlust had earned them a grim reputation: the monsters with red blood.

“You’re disgusting!”

Two giants bellowed in rage. Dunbakel danced between them, her curved scimitar flickering like she was merely dusting off furniture. In that brief window, her feet hit the soil six times. Her movements were silent and weightless, yet her velocity was immense.

She left afterimages in her wake. Her white hair trailed behind her like a comet. In the same heartbeat, her blade sliced through the giants’ windpipes. She hit both the left and right targets simultaneously. Recovering her weapon, she lunged forward. Her agility was supernatural; to the common soldier, she was nothing more than a blur. Wherever that blur passed, fountains of blood erupted from giant necks.

*Thud, thud.*

The giants dropped to their knees and slumped forward, their bodies tangling as they fell. The impact shook the ground. While Rem and Dunbakel were enjoying their grim sport—

“Advance!”

A commander’s voice rang out across the field. If the path behind you was a graveyard, the only choice was to push forward. The officer in charge of the vanguard was the type who would keep stabbing his spear even if he were being disemboweled. Regardless of the carnage at his back, he pushed the march.

The Great Emperor’s front line consisted of the elephant corps, the giants, and the Ochre Corps. This convict battalion, identified by their ochre-colored banners, was a group that had no concept of retreat. At the command, every soldier reached for a pill roughly the size of a thumbnail, tossed it into their mouths, and crunched down.

These pills were a unique chemical ration known as Carny Festa—literally translated as a festival of blood and flesh.

*Gulp, crunch!*

They downed them instantly, chewing the bitter medicine before swallowing. Almost immediately, the unit was a chorus of agony and madness.

“Uuughh!”

“Graaaah!”

“Kihihihihi!”

Sanity fled their eyes as the whites turned a deep crimson. Their musculature expanded rapidly, and prominent blue veins pulsed across their faces. To stabilize the effects of the drug, they were now biologically driven to consume the blood and flesh of their enemies. Their reality was reduced to a single mandate: kill or die.

Even the officer at the front had taken the dose. The entire unit had transformed into a pack of berserkers who would fight until their hearts stopped. They were a dark mirror to the holy berserkers of the Holy City Legion—though far more depraved, given their penchant for cannibalizing their fallen foes. To an outsider, the religious zealots who sang hymns of divine love while slaughtering might seem just as deranged.

“Those absolute lunatics…”

Rem stared, his jaw dropping. The western shamans were well-versed in narcotics; they used them to induce trances for spirit possession. He recognized the signs of what had just been unleashed.

“We have to hunt them down.”

He realized they couldn’t allow that unit to reach the main allied lines in such a state.

“The stench is unbearable,” Dunbakel added, and the two of them sprinted toward the enemy’s rear.

Just as they moved, as if lying in wait, a sharp spike of murderous intent targeted their backs. Rem and Dunbakel pivoted simultaneously. Their reaction—snapping their heads around and lunging in opposite directions to create space—was perfectly synchronized, like a choreographed dance.

However, their subsequent stances were distinct. Rem brought his axe up to his chest, while Dunbakel dropped low, pressing her limbs into the earth and snarling, her teeth bared.

*Grrr.*

The beastkin’s primal nature took over, a low growl rumbling in her throat. Emerging before them were figures clad in void-black masks. These masks were featureless, lacking even slits for eyes. They were silent, their breathing undetectable, and their emotions unreadable. They offered no words.

Each held a distinct weapon: a trident and a longsword. Rem squared off against the trident wielder, while Dunbakel faced the swordsman. The two masked figures advanced, choosing the matchups that best suited their respective styles.