Chapter 219 - Wanting to Cross Blades Just Once

The city was abuzz with excitement, but even amidst the celebratory atmosphere, a contingent of guards remained stationed, watchful. Two carriages rolled through the city streets, cutting a path to the central market square. There was no pretense for stopping them—their passage was officially sanctioned, and they bore the mark of one of the great aristocrats of the region.

A coachman with muscular arms descended from the first carriage and opened its door, revealing a man with a strikingly groomed mustache.

"Count Molsen?" Marcus murmured under his breath, stepping forward to meet him.

"I heard there was a victory to celebrate, so I thought I'd stop by on my way," said the Count.

The arrival of such a figure here was entirely unexpected—much less in the middle of the bustling market square. Even the squad leader, who also served as the city's security captain, hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Marcus gave him a subtle nod, and the captain wordlessly stepped back, leaving Marcus to face the Count.

The Count exuded an aura of confidence, an unshakable self-assurance stemming from a deep awareness of his own authority. His voice resonated through the quieted square, his commanding tone seeming to fill the space entirely.

"I hear the hero of this recent battlefield is among us," the Count declared boldly. "I thought I'd like to see this gem for myself."

Despite his aristocratic status, Count Molsen was no peacock. He wore no satin or silk but instead a simple, elegant linen outfit. Even so, there was a sense of nobility in his appearance, further emphasized by the clearly defined muscles visible beneath the light fabric.

The muddy, liquor-soaked ground of the market square squelched beneath his boots, yet he carried himself with the composure of someone who would seem regal even amidst filth.

Enkrid, observing from a distance, couldn't help but find the Count intriguing. There was something undeniably striking about the man.

"I hear you've been keeping this treasure hidden away," Molsen continued, his voice laden with good-natured curiosity. "Let me take a look, will you?"

Marcus remained silent, his expression unusually tense. Enkrid watched this unfold from a short distance, noticing the uncharacteristic seriousness on Marcus's face—so unlike the man who had been quietly smirking even during the chaos of war.

"That bastard's face is just asking to be smashed in," Rem muttered beside him.

Though his speech wasn't slurred, it was clear the alcohol was doing some of the talking. Enkrid sighed, gesturing to Audin and Ragna to take Rem away before he did something regrettable.

After sending Rem off, Enkrid decided to step forward. Marcus had been the one to conceal him thus far, but that had been Marcus's choice, not his. Now that his presence was no longer a secret, Enkrid saw no reason to remain hidden.

Besides, the Count's arrival seemed less a threat and more an opportunity. Molsen had a reputation for gathering talented individuals under his banner, earning him the moniker "The Collector of Talent."

Enkrid found himself wondering—did this so-called collector have swordsmen, spearmen, or perhaps even martial artists under his employ? Surely he did. The thought stirred a flicker of anticipation. Perhaps some of these people would come seeking him out once rumors of his prowess spread further.

"I believe your name is Enkrid?" Molsen called out, his voice cutting through Enkrid's musings.

Before Marcus could respond, Enkrid stepped forward.

However, a man—a coachman, likely one of Molsen's personal guards—moved to block him. The coachman placed a firm arm against Enkrid's chest, more a shove than a simple act of prevention. His well-trained physique and sharp, menacing eyes made his intention clear: this was a deliberate provocation.

Enkrid felt the push, his instincts flaring. Was this a challenge? It certainly seemed that way.

And if the coachman wanted a fight, who was Enkrid to deny him?

Enkrid's actions were calculated, even if partially influenced by Rem's earlier antics and the alcohol still faintly clouding his judgment. Deep down, he harbored a hope: If I make a strong enough impression here, perhaps the caliber of those who come seeking me in the future will be higher.

So, when the coachman's arm struck his chest, Enkrid reacted without hesitation. Grabbing the man's arm, Enkrid first pushed, drawing the coachman's strength forward, then suddenly pulled while sweeping his left foot behind the man's heel.

It was a flawless execution of Balrafian martial arts—a technique Audin had once taught him for breaking an opponent's balance.

Caught off guard, the coachman found his feet lifted from the ground, his rear slamming into the dirt with a heavy thud.

Whether Count Molsen had intended to create such a tense silence in the square, Enkrid shattered it entirely. The hush grew even thicker, interrupted only by an involuntary groan from a soldier in the crowd.

"Looks painful," Enkrid remarked, breaking the awkward quiet as he glanced at the fallen man, who now sported a flushed face. The coachman, seething with embarrassment, began to rise, his fists clenched, but Enkrid turned his attention away before the man could act.

"You came to see me, I presume?" Enkrid said casually, addressing the Count without sparing the fallen coachman a glance. His words were bold, directed at the Count as if ignoring the coachman's existence entirely.

The Count was watching the scene intently. The coachman, fists still shaking with the urge to retaliate, held back. After all, his lord had his eyes fixed on the very man who had humiliated him.

Enkrid's display had achieved its goal. The subtle commotion had caught Molsen's full attention. Now, Enkrid stood with a calm demeanor, meeting the Count's gaze directly—a level-headedness that bordered on arrogance.

Molsen's mustache twitched faintly, as if hinting at amusement. He studied Enkrid closely, his gaze lingering on the sharp, steady blue eyes and the raven-black hair.

'He takes good care of that mustache,' Enkrid mused absently, taking note of how precisely groomed it was.

Marcus, who had been about to step in, hesitated. Enkrid's unexpected initiative left him with no room to intervene.

"So, you are Enkrid?" Molsen finally asked.

"Yes, that's correct," Enkrid replied.

Their eyes met again. This time, it was a battle of silent observations. The Count's calm gaze searched Enkrid's face, while Enkrid returned the look without flinching, as though testing the nobleman in turn.

For a fleeting moment, Enkrid wondered if he had overstepped. Was knocking down the coachman—a man who served Molsen—too much of a breach in etiquette for a first meeting?

Then again, Enkrid thought wryly, Why should I care? Molsen's forces meddled in the battlefield before. Everyone knows it.

Though he couldn't openly confront Molsen about his involvement, the Count's forces had certainly deployed clandestine units that complicated the war effort. Marcus had deliberately avoided pursuing those retreating soldiers, following Krais's advice:

"What good would confronting them do? If you accuse Molsen, he'll just deny it and spin it as slander. Worse, we might end up having to grovel instead of holding him accountable. Sometimes, it's better to pretend you don't know."

This had left Enkrid with no lingering guilt about his actions. After all, the coachman wasn't Molsen's heir or anything—just a guard who had gotten a little too bold.

Or so he thought.

"Are you all right?" Molsen suddenly turned to the coachman still standing awkwardly behind Enkrid.

"Yes, father," came the unexpected reply.

Father?

Enkrid froze momentarily, a sharp urge to clear his ears overtaking him.

"You chastise my son so harshly upon first meeting?" Molsen asked, his voice tinged with curiosity rather than anger. "Your boldness is… quite remarkable."

Enkrid blinked, realizing there had been a grave misunderstanding.

"Ah… yes. I see how that… might have happened," he replied awkwardly.

Silence returned, heavy and suffocating. It felt as though the earlier tear in the veil of quiet had been hastily sewn back together, the atmosphere now awkwardly tense.

"You thought he was just a guard?" Molsen broke the silence, this time with a question that carried an almost playful edge.

"I didn't know," Enkrid admitted candidly.

"Now you do," the Count said with a faint smile.

The Count's remark, "Now you know," hung in the air, almost inviting Enkrid to apologize. The nobleman turned fully toward him, his gaze carrying a faint glimmer—subtle yet sharp, as though it sought to pierce through Enkrid's surface and lay bare his inner thoughts.

It was the kind of look that unsettled Enkrid, reminiscent of the sly, probing stare of a beast encountered on a desolate road—one that seemed to weigh both strength and intent.

Should he apologize? It wasn't difficult. A few polite words would suffice, nothing more than a superficial gesture. Yet, for some reason, his lips refused to move.

It wasn't arrogance born from growing skill, nor stubborn pride. It was something else entirely—an inexplicable dislike for the man before him.

The tense silence began to spread, drawing the attention of onlookers who now watched with bated breath.

Then, unexpectedly, the Count burst into hearty laughter.

"Ha! It's fine," Molsen declared, his voice carrying a booming quality that broke the tension. "If anything, the idiot deserved it."

Enkrid saluted in acknowledgment, his gesture one of disciplined respect rather than warmth.

"I mean it—no harm done. I only dropped by to see for myself if the rumors were true. They weren't exaggerated." The Count scrutinized Enkrid's face, his tone turning playful.

"Not just skill, but that face of yours—no wonder every maiden in the nearby villages must be struggling to sleep at night."

"Perhaps insomnia is a common ailment around here," Enkrid replied with a dry wit, the humor faintly laced with fairy-like sarcasm.

Molsen chuckled, clearly amused. After a few more inconsequential remarks, the conversation shifted. Turning to Marcus, the Count offered a vague apology.

"The swarms of beasts and monsters rising from the south have been relentless. As you know, defending one's lands is a duty entrusted by the crown. Holding them back was no easy task. Alas, I couldn't spare the forces to assist against the Martai. That city's ties to the eastern influence ran too deep, but your efforts were commendable."

The Count spoke as though he were royalty himself, a subtle arrogance underlining his words. Marcus, ever poised, replied with a polished smile.

"Such recognition is best heard from our queen, the rightful sovereign of this land."

The undertone was clear: You're no king, pretender.

Molsen either didn't notice or chose to ignore the jab, departing soon after with a dismissive wave. Though his stay had been brief, the weight of his presence lingered, leaving a sour taste among the soldiers.

As soon as the Count was out of earshot, Marcus let out a bitter laugh.

"What an insufferable bastard," he muttered, his disdain sharper than usual.

"Not on good terms, I take it?" Enkrid inquired.

"Do you know what that snake dreams of?" Marcus shot back without waiting for a response.

"Being a usurper. A madman aiming for the throne itself."

Enkrid had little room to criticize another's ambitions, but the revelation made Molsen's unsettling demeanor clearer. Still, it didn't explain everything.

'It's not just the dream—there's something off about his eyes,' Enkrid thought, the image of Molsen's probing gaze lingering in his mind.

That night, as the camp's energy slowly revived from Molsen's departure, Rem's voice suddenly broke through Enkrid's thoughts.

"It's him!"

Enkrid blinked, startled by the outburst.

"Who's him?"

"The Count. That bastard," Rem declared, slapping his palm with realization.

Enkrid raised a brow. "And?"

"I told you before, didn't I? The reason I ended up wandering here."

Enkrid recalled the story—Rem had once killed a noble's son after catching him committing unspeakable atrocities. It was an act of justice that had cost Rem everything, forcing him into exile.

"That bastard's his father. Count Molsen."

"...Are you certain?"

"Ha! I knew I'd seen him somewhere before."

As Rem's face lit up with a mixture of vindication and unease, Enkrid could only wonder: Did Molsen fail to recognize Rem, or did he simply not care?

The Count's cunning was legendary, and the possibility of him hiding layers of intent beneath that polished exterior seemed all too real. If anything, Molsen reminded Enkrid of a mythical hydra, each head holding a different scheme.

And those eyes...

"He's not ordinary," Enkrid muttered to himself as he returned to the barracks.

Later that evening, as he contemplated Molsen's strange aura, Esther—the panther—watched him intently, her fiery gaze almost mirroring the Count's penetrating stare.

"You're overthinking it," Rem interjected. "Let's spar instead."

"Hmm?" Enkrid blinked at the sudden suggestion.

"You've got that look again—the one that says you're about to spiral into madness. A good spar should help."

Enkrid smiled faintly. Sparring with Rem proved therapeutic, allowing him to test new techniques in a refreshing, enjoyable bout.

Two days later, the camp underwent its first full-scale training under Enkrid's leadership as the newly appointed Training Company Commander.

Even the heavy-armored first company participated, their disgruntled expressions revealing their disdain for the drill. Unlike other units, their rigorous training was considered unparalleled, and some resented being grouped with others.

Enkrid, standing atop the platform, remained unfazed, his focus solely on the task at hand. The murmurs of discontent were irrelevant to him—he had a job to do.

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