Chapter 213 - After the Dust Settled

Marcus was, without a doubt, a cunning politician.

Olf only realized Marcus was closing in after he had retreated into the city. Upon hearing the reports, he felt like throwing up.

His head was spinning.

Had the retreat been perilous?

No. There had been no danger. A small cavalry unit had trailed them, serving as both escort and rear guard.

'He herded me into the city.'

And then a siege? Was that lunatic out of his mind?

Once the initial shock wore off, fury followed naturally.

Yet even in his anger, Olf's mind worked frantically. If he lost focus here, it was all over.

Could they regroup within the city and repel the Border Guard's forces?

Not a chance. They had just been routed in battle.

Morale was at rock bottom, and proper reorganization would require time.

Marcus had robbed Olf of that time:

Time to gather his thoughts.

Time to prepare.

Time to summon reinforcements.

Still, Olf clung to his composure and called for a military meeting.

"Get everyone in here!"

His voice, raised in urgency, managed not to waver—a small relief.

Soon, everyone involved in their military operations gathered.

"I'll go out and drive them off! Just give me a hundred infantry and a cavalry detachment!"

One of the lieutenants shouted in anger.

Is this idiot even sane?

If the enemy could be chased off so easily, would they have taken such a beating in the previous battle?

This lieutenant was Greg's replacement.

"Shut up."

Olf dismissed him coldly, turning his attention elsewhere. No matter how carefully you selected people, there were always morons.

That this fool had made it to lieutenant was the real miracle.

"It was all a political move, hidden well," said another lieutenant, one skilled at sycophancy, trying to ease Olf's anger.

But such words were meaningless to Olf now.

The chair beneath him felt unbearably heavy.

His chest felt heavier still.

His hands and feet refused to move as he wanted.

Who did those unmarked troops belong to?

They were under Count Molsen's command. Specifically, they had been led by Baron Bantra's forces, supplemented by skilled swordsmen directly sent by the count himself.

Most of Bantra's surviving troops had deserted upon hearing news of their defeat.

Their retreating figures looked every bit the part of beaten stragglers, much like Olf's own troops from Martai.

Olf's eyes twitched.

Are we just supposed to let ourselves be devoured like this?

Outside the city, Marcus was steadily building his siege lines.

How long had he been preparing for this? Had this entire campaign been orchestrated from the start?

Marcus's men erected tents, and five figures reportedly stood before them, watching Martai's walls.

The pins scattered across Olf's strategy map were in disarray. One had toppled over to the side, and Olf couldn't help but feel it symbolized his current state.

'Those Mad bastards.'

The thought of the five maniacs who had rampaged across the battlefield resurfaced in his mind, filling him with irritation. They had been the ones to wreck his forces.

Olf ground his teeth, suppressing the nausea rising within him.

When do you lose a fight? When you lose your grit and your nerve.

The mercenary spirit of the east reminded him of that truth.

A Blade to Break

Even if victory in battle was out of reach, Olf had to shatter Marcus's dagger somehow.

"Everyone, out."

Olf's command was sharp.

It was time to deploy his trump card—one he had prepared just in case but had hoped never to use.

"What?"

That tactless lieutenant again, his cluelessness grating on Olf's nerves.

This idiot will die once this battle is over, Olf thought grimly.

He missed Greg.

Of course, Greg was dead. His shock unit had been the first to be annihilated, and Greg had led the brigade.

The only one left intact was Zimmer, commander of the second battalion.

Zimmer, noticing the tension, spoke up.

"The general has spoken. Everyone, out."

At his words, the other officers began filing out.

As Zimmer, the last to leave, turned to look back, he asked, "General?"

"I need to think. Wait outside," Olf replied.

Zimmer, though unarmed, placed a hand on his waist and bowed.

Olf gave him a small nod.

Once the room was empty, Olf spoke to the void.

"Come out."

From behind him, where the light didn't reach, something emerged from the shadows.

It was indistinct at first, like a part of the darkness itself or soot spreading through the air.

The black mass rose from the ground, forming a three-dimensional figure.

In moments, it became a man cloaked in a black robe. Though his face was obscured, his exposed hands were pale and flawless.

"Have you decided?" the robed man asked, his voice as clear and smooth as a clarinet.

Dealing with a wizard was often likened to bargaining with the devil. At least, that was Olf's understanding.

Nothing comes without a price.

"I have," Olf replied.

The cost of the contract would not be light, but neither was the idea of enduring defeat and losing the city.

Enkrid.

The name of the man who had announced himself on the battlefield stuck in Olf's mind. Black hair spilled out beneath his helmet, and wherever he went, Martai's soldiers fell like grass under a scythe.

Olf knew the reason for his defeat. If he could break the blade responsible, the outcome of this siege might still change.

***

"This siege alone isn't going to solve anything," Enkrid said, studying Martai's high walls.

Should we climb over?

The Border Guard had no mangonels, siege towers, or trebuchets—just ladders, if that.

Even then, no one seemed to have brought any ladders.

They're not planning to climb, Enkrid concluded.

So, brute force?

The gate loomed before him. There was no moat or other significant barrier.

If Audin gets serious and swings his hammer, we could probably break through at least one spot.

The gate was thick and dark brown, made of sturdy timber. But Audin's arms seemed even sturdier.

Perhaps more so.

If we sneak over at night, ladders might not even be necessary.

The weathered walls were pitted and uneven, providing ample handholds. Climbing was feasible if they put their minds to it.

Enkrid envisioned what might happen after nightfall.

If I can climb it...

Then so could Rem, Ragna, Jaxen, and Audin.

With just the five of them over the wall, they could end it. Audin could open the gate while the others held the line.

What if archers are waiting?

Dodging arrows wouldn't be enough. Perhaps they'd need shields.

Though simple, the strategy had worked in the past.

Enkrid had used similar formations before, both as part of a unit and while leading one. But this time was different.

The sheer destructive power, the control he exerted as the focal point, and the sense of commanding from start to finish—it was all new.

Experience fosters growth, and Enkrid was growing again.

He was coming to understand the potential of the strength he and the others possessed, and what they could accomplish together.

A handful of warriors shaping the tide of battle—that was why knights had once been pivotal in warfare.

Enkrid was learning this firsthand.

"Why are you even worrying about that?" Rem said from beside him, casually cleaning his ear.

"Just playing at being a commander," Enkrid joked.

Rem snorted with laughter. "Commander of a unit with less than ten men! How about we fill our bellies first?"

***

Bodies littered the battlefield—blood, entrails, severed limbs, shattered bones, and mangled eyes scattered everywhere. They had wreaked havoc, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

Eating was the last thing on their minds, yet they couldn't march into battle on empty stomachs.

To fight well, one had to eat.

"Let's wash up first," someone suggested.

Near the gate, there was a well once used by farmers tending to their fields.

If the water's poisoned, that would be a problem. But would anyone here even think to do that?

They drew water and began scrubbing away the grime. Soon, Rem, Ragna, Jaxen, and Audin joined in, discarding their armor and dousing themselves.

Water splashed everywhere as they poured it over their heads, washing away the blood and sweat.

The ground was covered with stones, preventing them from stepping in mud. Enkrid appreciated the detail.

"Now that's a sight," remarked Finn, appearing suddenly and giving a thumbs-up.

Everyone was in various states of undress, clad in nothing but their undergarments.

"Indeed, quite the sight," chimed in the fairy Company Commander, standing beside Finn. Behind them, Dunbakel observed silently.

"Kyarr," Esther purred, her blue eyes blinking as she sat, seemingly scrutinizing the group.

"Where've you been?" Enkrid asked, ignoring the murmurs around him.

The black panther raised a paw, scratching her neck, her indifference palpable.

Does it even matter? It's not like her absence would get me killed.

Nearby, some soldiers waited for their turn at the well, exchanging idle chatter.

"Commander, if there's a vacancy in your unit, let me in," one of them quipped.

Their downtime allowed for some relaxation, though vigilance wasn't forgotten. The Border Guard maintained a high standard—each soldier knew their role and fulfilled it well.

"Are you serious?" someone asked, laughing.

The soldier only smiled, a sly grin.

Enkrid smirked faintly as he passed. Even if they were serious, there wasn't room for more, nor would adding a few random soldiers improve their unit.

If anything, Rem would probably use them as playthings.

After washing, Enkrid tended to his gear. The leather, soaked with blood, retained its stains and odor, though he applied a bit of polish to keep it conditioned. It would suffice.

Next, he examined his gauntlets and boots before finally gripping his sword.

A neglected blade rusts quickly, especially one stained with blood. He began cleaning it meticulously.

"Here, use this," offered a soldier from the first company, handing over a small clay jar.

"What's this?"

"Flaxseed oil. It's valuable."

"…And you're giving it to me?"

"I insist," the soldier replied, leaving quickly after.

Nearby, Krais observed. "Looks like they admire you. Guess it's respect for what you pulled off in that last battle."

Enkrid shrugged. It wasn't a big deal.

He used the oil to wipe down his sword. As he worked, Rem approached, holding out his axe.

"Take a look at this. The edge is chipped," he said.

The fact that the axe was still mostly intact after such heavy use was more surprising.

"This axe here, it's begging for some oil. It's saying, 'Oil me, oil me now,'" Rem joked in a mock pleading voice.

Having encountered cursed blades before, Enkrid doubted even the most malevolent weapon would sound that ridiculous.

"Use it," Enkrid said, offering the jar. There was enough to share.

Once his blade was clean, he drew another sword he'd picked up on the battlefield.

Sssrrk.

It was nothing remarkable. He had taken it on a whim, feeling odd carrying only one sword.

Its former owner, a commander, had died with it sheathed, his throat pierced by Jaxen.

This blade…

Precision and Poise

"Was it the no-kill thrust?"

The technique erased bloodlust and sound, leaving only action behind.

Sometimes, the obvious is overlooked—dismissed as a mistake or an illusion. Jaxen's thrust had that uncanny effect.

It seemed slow, predictable, even avoidable at first glance. A feint to be dodged with ease.

But by the time realization struck, his blade would already have pierced your throat.

How was this possible?

Enkrid, observing closely, began to understand. His heightened perception revealed what had previously been invisible.

"Momentary acceleration."

Just before the thrust, Jaxen's blade moved at blinding speed, disappearing for an instant. It rivaled, or perhaps even surpassed, Rem's Ray-Axe in velocity.

"Could I apply this?"

It felt within reach—though imperfectly so.

Beyond Jaxen, there were lessons everywhere: from Ragna, from Rem, from Audin, and from countless adversaries. Even from those he'd slain.

After each battle, fragments of insight crystallized, ready to be refined.

"Practicing swordsmanship already?"

The fairy Company Commander approached silently, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Anyone who knew Enkrid would recognize his movements—deliberate swipes of his hand through empty air, replaying combat scenarios.

"It's enjoyable," Enkrid replied simply.

"Fair enough. There won't be any fighting for now. Rest is the order of the day… fiancé."

"Yes, confirmed."

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the camp. Border Guard tents filled the horizon, though the work wasn't truly done.

No supply lines secured yet…

Their rations might last four days, if that.

Enkrid wondered about Markus' plan but found no answers forthcoming. Strategy discussions were on hold.

For now, most soldiers were settling into exhaustion, leaving the watch to designated patrols.

Quiet moments allowed for indulgences. Enkrid uncorked a hidden flask of apple wine.

"I thought you finished that?" Rem grumbled, accepting a smaller bottle Enkrid tossed his way.

"You've earned it."

"You too, Captain, fighting like that while trembling all over," Rem said with a sly grin.

He noticed. The overuse of Heart of the Beast had left Enkrid's muscles quivering. But it was necessary to hold his own among these comrades, each of them extraordinary.

That was behind him now. Recovery came faster these days. Enkrid flexed his hands, checking his condition. Perfect.

"You've grown, Captain," Rem muttered, his tone half-teasing.

Sometimes, trivial remarks surfaced without much thought. Enkrid's response was just as offhand.

"I've always been taller."

"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Rem shook his head.

Jaxen ignored the exchange, while Ragna, ever stoic, interjected, "Jokes can be honed like swords."

What nonsense is that?

Enkrid scoffed internally. When it came to wit, competing with this group was an insult in itself.

"Pray," Audin said suddenly, beginning a quiet invocation.

Enkrid kept silent. He owed them all for their unwavering loyalty during the day's battle. Asking why they followed him would serve no purpose.

Instead, he glanced at each of them in turn.

"I can fight too," Dunbakel declared suddenly.

"I know," Enkrid replied.

But sending him out now would be a death sentence. If Enkrid had wanted a mere meat shield, Dunbakel wouldn't have been accepted at all. Having taken him in, it was only right to use him properly.

Resting his chin on his hand, Enkrid surveyed the group one last time before reclining onto a thick cloth spread across the ground. It wasn't luxurious, but it sufficed.

The uneven texture of rocks beneath the cloth was a minor annoyance. Sleep came anyway.

As night deepened and the camp fell silent, Enkrid stirred only slightly when he felt Esther snuggle into his arms. He held the black panther gently as sleep reclaimed him.

Hours passed, and in the stillness before dawn, Esther slipped out of his embrace.

A peculiar energy descended over the tent, one that felt foreign yet familiar. It was the presence of magic—a phenomenon tied intimately to Esther's enigmatic world.

Mysticism, sorcery, and ancient power converged, signaling an event yet to unfold.