Chapter 218 - Making Them Come to You, Not Going to Them

218. Making Them Come to You, Not Going to Them

To say it was unexpected was to say there were no expectations to begin with.

To elaborate, it also meant it wasn't something he wanted.

"Me? As a battalion commander?"

Managing his subordinates, like Rem and Dunbakel, was already tiresome enough.

More than that, he simply wanted to swing his sword again—a natural desire and longing.

He felt as if his fingers were on the verge of brushing against a dream that had always been out of reach.

Like anyone else, he was clawing and stretching to pull that dream closer to himself.

It was one of those moments when he wanted to lose himself in desire rather than responsibility.

And now they were asking him to oversee an entire city?

Perhaps one day he might welcome such a role, but not now—not at this moment.

Even searching for reasons to refuse felt unnecessary.

If he somehow ended up as the battalion commander, how would things go?

Rem's reaction immediately came to mind.

"Battalion commandaang? Then I'll take a company! Give me my company members!"

He'd take dozens of soldiers, push them relentlessly, and retire them with "honors."

Everyone would likely flee as fast as they could.

Come to think of it, entrusting Dunbakel to Rem might have been a mistake.

Not that he had any intention of looking after the beastkin himself at this point.

So, the answer was already clear:

He didn't want it. Not now.

"It's a no."

Though his thoughts were long, his decision was swift—so quick, in fact, it was as though he hadn't hesitated at all. His response was instant.

"I figured as much."

Marcus nodded, unsurprised, without a hint of regret. Still, he added,

"Let's say I offered it two more times, for a total of three. If you change your mind, feel free to let me know."

"Understood."

Enkrid replied indifferently.

"Now then, let's hear it. Why did you refuse? I should at least know your reasoning, right?"

Marcus laced his fingers together, resting his chin on them. That pose seemed to be a habit—Enkrid had seen it often.

Though Marcus didn't appear genuinely curious, Enkrid answered anyway. It was only polite to respond, especially when the question came from a superior.

Standing straight in front of the desk, Enkrid began.

"The First Company Commander wouldn't approve."

This was a statement of internal resistance.

The First Company Commander had always been the man closest to succeeding as the next battalion commander. Since the Border Guard captain had taken charge of Martai, shouldn't the position go to him?

Even if they overruled him, having a subordinate harboring resentment right under you was never a good look.

"Political awareness, too?"

Marcus kept his chin resting on his fingers as he spoke, then asked again, seemingly unsatisfied.

"Any other reasons?"

"The battalion commander position isn't necessary for me."

"...It's rare to hear someone say they don't need this position. It doesn't even sound like an excuse or pretext."

Marcus let his posture relax, leaning back in his chair. Now, he seemed genuinely intrigued.

Enkrid knew there was a slyness to Marcus—a few metaphorical snakes writhing in his belly.

Still, it wasn't something that bothered him. So, he spoke freely.

Saying he didn't need it was the simple truth.

To become a knight, skill came first. Strength took precedence. Leadership qualities were secondary.

If such qualities were ever required, he'd learn them when the time came.

Hadn't he always learned by doing—by throwing himself into the fray, risking life and limb?

But for now, it simply wasn't necessary.

He had once again felt the gap in his abilities.

Or rather than a gap, it was more like a thirst.

From Zimmer's thrust to everything he'd learned before that, there was still so much to master.

Even from Marcus's strategies, he had gleaned valuable insights. His path was still long.

And he wanted to walk it.

It was a path toward a faded dream. And because of that, he wanted to push responsibility aside for now.

That was his true motive.

A realization he came to only just now, through the process of articulating it.

It was always through self-examination that one truly understood themselves.

"I still lack skill with the sword."

Enkrid said.

"If you lack skill, half the soldiers should just go off and die, then."

Marcus remarked, then clapped his hands lightly, as if to signify understanding.

"Well, if someone doesn't want a bag of gold shoved into their hands, there's not much point in forcing it."

He muttered as much, then moved on to asking about the current situation.

Naturally, Enkrid answered,

"I suspect things will continue to worsen. Don't you?"

Though his response was based on intuition, the reality was indeed leaning that way.

It had only been a few days since the battle ended, so it wasn't immediately apparent yet.

Besides, this fight had ended as swiftly as popcorn popping over a flame.

What was expected to be a prolonged siege had been shattered by strategy.

First, by hiding Enkrid. Second, by opening Martai's gates.

Thanks to those moves, the enemy and their commander had lost their morale and surrendered outright.

If they'd gone all-out from the start, the battle might have been far bloodier.

In any case, Marcus was already aware of the deteriorating situation.

When a force grows in size and strength, problems naturally increase.

On top of that, it was unlikely that help from the central government could be expected anytime soon.

The Border Guard had weakened their forces by pulling the garrison away.

They'd also antagonized the Black Blade, and by swallowing Martai, they had placed themselves in a threatening position toward the local nobility.

And on top of that, Enkrid himself had personally killed members of the cult.

"That's why I proposed the battalion commander position."

"What would change if I took it?"

"Are you asking because you don't know?"

"A commander with overwhelming strength leaves an impression."

But what does that have to do with leading an entire city?

"And to be honest, the First Company Commander wouldn't even hold a grudge."

Marcus added this with a hint of amusement.

If you're going to challenge someone, they have to seem beatable. But this? This was practically a monster. The idea of the First Company Commander rebelling? Ridiculous.

While there might be internal dissatisfaction, there was every reason for outward compliance.

That was Marcus's view, but Enkrid didn't agree.

People always take it the hardest when something they believed was theirs—whether promised or presumed—is taken away.

Their perspectives differed, but it didn't matter.

Enkrid wouldn't accept the role, and Marcus had no real intention of giving it to him either.

In truth, Marcus thought it'd be far more entertaining to save an even bigger position for Enkrid in the future.

Besides, becoming a knight would naturally come with its own territory.

"When did I start believing this guy would inevitably become a knight?"

Marcus mused silently to himself but outwardly delivered a prepared statement.

"Then how about taking the position of Training Company Commander?"

This was Marcus's decision alone. While the Border Guard had vacated their posts, expanding the ranks of the Mad Company wasn't something that could be done easily—or quickly.

Not that he wouldn't try.

"I wouldn't get my hopes up," the fairy commander had said, cautioning that Rem was an expert at pushing people to their limits.

Most recruits would likely desert after joining.

Thus, Marcus devised the next best plan:

"Give them a sense of belonging, a rank, a purpose, and something to do."

Enkrid, who seemed to thrive on training, seemed like a natural fit for teaching.

And so, the new position of Training Company Commander was created.

"Understood."

Enkrid accepted the role with little resistance. This surprised Marcus, but Enkrid had been considering something similar himself.

What was best for the city's safety?

Improving the overall quality of the troops. And how could that be done?

"Make them work."

He didn't expect them to match his level, but increasing training time and imposing some structured effort would inevitably lead to improvement.

Wasn't he himself proof of that?

Of course, to the standing forces under the Border Guard, this was unwelcome news.

But right now, it was just Marcus and Enkrid in the room.

"Well then."

"Got it."

Enkrid saluted and withdrew. While the position of Training Company Commander was significant, his priority now was the victory celebration.

It would be during this celebration that his contributions to the recent battle would be formally acknowledged.

Everything else would come afterward.

Until then, Enkrid resolved to refine and internalize everything he had learned and experienced.

Time, as always, was more precious than gold.

Especially when he hadn't encountered any barriers lately.

"Is the boatman the ones who's being lazy?"

If the boatman had heard, they might have scoffed.

Two days later, the victory celebration took place.

"To glory in battle! To a new rising star and hero who swallowed Martai whole!"

Enkrid's name had spread beyond the city due to this battle.

Perhaps it was because he had boldly declared his name in the heart of the battlefield.

Or maybe it wasn't. Who could say?

As people ate, drank, cheered, and shouted their hearts out, Enkrid found himself distracted.

"Experience."

While digesting past experiences was important, he considered it stagnation.

Beyond consolidating what he already had, he now had new aspirations.

Did he need an adventure? Should he leave this place?

For a new pattern, new experiences?

Something from Marcus's strategies still lingered in his mind, stirring his thoughts.

"What's got you so deep in thought?"

Rem's voice broke his reverie. He stood nearby, holding a pumpkin pie in one hand and a glass of distilled spirits in the other. The sharp, alcoholic aroma stung Enkrid's nose—it was close to pure liquor.

Rem seemed thoroughly immersed in drowning his stomach with booze.

Enkrid, seated on a chair by a marketplace stall, watched the scene unfold.

It was still broad daylight, yet the drinking had started.

Meanwhile, soldiers, citizens, and children alike kept stealing glances at him.

Of course, he was the hero of the recent battle.

Though Rem and the Mad Company drew their share of attention as well, they were used to ignoring the stares of others.

Meanwhile, Jaxen had disappeared again.

Perhaps he had gone to the red-light district.

"I was thinking about how many strong fighters I might meet if I wandered across the continent."

It was an honest response.

Hearing it, Rem chuckled.

"I've wandered a bit myself, and let me tell you, it's not easy. Half the so-called strong ones you hear about are just full of hot air."

"That's true," Ragna agreed from the other side, having arrived at some point.

His cheeks were flushed from a few drinks, but he didn't look drunk—he must not have had much.

Ragna was never much of a drinker, as the others recalled.

From their remarks alone, it was clear they both had experience wandering the continent.

"Is that so?"

Enkrid asked back, feeling a peculiar thirst.

What exactly was this thirst?

Did he simply want to fight more? It didn't seem that simple.

Was he impatient to train with his sword? No, that didn't feel quite right either.

Could it be an obsession with reliving today, over and over? Or perhaps he was anticipating repeated deaths?

For Enkrid, the concept of repeating today, encountering barriers, or dealing with the "boatman" were all separate matters.

Though he joked to himself about blaming the boatman, Enkrid didn't care whether today's repetition existed or not.

He had gotten to where he was simply by moving forward.

The repetition of today was just a tool he used as needed.

It, too, was something that had settled into him by chance.

Thus, this thirst must have been for something else.

Something entirely different.

It had begun after he understood the form of the disciplined swordsmanship—an intense desire to clash with skilled fighters across the vast continent.

It was pure competitive spirit, a burning drive for conflict.

"Fight and experience."

That was the path to fully realize the patchwork of dreams he had.

In the past, whenever he learned something new, he was always dragged along by circumstances. But this time was different.

By observing Marcus's strategies, Enkrid had identified his own shortcomings. It was no longer just about absorbing past experiences—it was about building a tower of new ones. A path he realized and marked out for himself.

"Should I start gathering rumors about skilled fighters for you?"

It was the bald Gilpin. Who knew when he'd arrived.

He, too, seemed to have had a few drinks, but his demeanor remained composed. Gilpin wasn't one to make mistakes, drunk or not.

Hearing him, Enkrid thought:

If he got a list of names, should he leave? Abandon the city?

It was something to consider.

Krais, who had been quietly observing, suddenly spoke.

"But, Commander, there's an easier way. Why bother wandering around and becoming a drifter?"

"What are you talking about, bug eyes?"

Rem asked, taking another sip of his drink. Krais, the large-eyed soldier, had a uniquely sharp mind to match his striking appearance.

"With this recent battle, your name is already widely known. There are plenty of people in Martai and the frontier villages who can act as our mouthpieces. So it's simple—don't go looking for them. Make them come to you."

Krais's suggestion was spot-on, like a thunderbolt of revelation.

Was competitive spirit unique to Enkrid?

If someone was confident in their skills, they'd surely rise to the challenge.

"That's plausible, Big-Eyes Brother," Audin agreed, while Dunbakel nodded beside him.

"Even among mercenaries, there are plenty of drifters who wander to hone their swords," Dunbakel added.

It was true.

"And what about soldiers who've finished their wars? They'll flock here in droves. Beat them time and again, and your reputation will grow. If they want to, they can fight to their heart's content—or until they drop dead. Of course, if this place becomes too much of a battlefield, fewer will come."

"Krais, you handle it."

Impressed, Enkrid handed him the most fitting reward—a coin pouch. It was one he had been saving to commission new armor but now found better use for.

"Oh!"

Krais's quick reflexes snatched the pouch out of the air, as if catching a flying dagger.

Thank you, sir!""

He grinned widely, while Enkrid felt satisfied.

"Spread the word well."

"Don't worry, sir!"

Now that was a deal everyone could smile about.

Even Rem smirked faintly. It wasn't a bad victory party, after all.

As time passed, a few soldiers approached, expressing interest in joining the Mad Company.

"I want to go mad too!"

"Make me one of the crazies!"

"I've always been a lunatic!"

Why all their applications sounded like this was beyond understanding.

Half-drunk, Rem happily declared that he'd accept them all, glancing at Enkrid for approval.

"Our company is too small for a company, anyway," he added.

That was true.

If these applicants didn't regret their decision after sobering up, they would officially join the Mad Company.

Not exactly a formal test, but if their words were sincere, their skills would be evaluated.

Beyond that, rumors swirled of glory, of a hero's birth.

One thing was certain: Enkrid was the centerpiece of this party.

"Wouldn't you like marmalade for life? All free, of course."

Here and there, merchants and charming women tried to tempt him.

"No!"

A young man in the crowd cried out in despair.

Even without the man's dramatic outburst, Enkrid had no intention of indulging in anything with the "Marmalade Maiden."

Especially not after seeing someone look as though their world had crumbled.

"I'll just buy it at full price."

"Tch."

Some market women were bold, others more subtle in their flirtations, but the situation came to a close—and grew more complicated—with the arrival of a particular figure.

"The Count is entering!"

The herald's cry echoed through the party grounds.