Chapter 220 - Hmm, not bad.

The Count of Molsen had three wives and six mistresses—a detail unremarkable for a noble of his time. He had sired numerous children, far surpassing even the royal family in number. Yet, to his dismay, not a single one fully satisfied his expectations.

Life rarely unfolded as planned.

"Let me handle it," one of his sons offered.

The Count turned from his seat in the carriage, meeting his son's eyes. There was jealousy and anger in them, unmistakable even in the dim light. Was it because of a simple reprimand? Or had this son, like others, grown envious of the rising name of Enkrid—a name now whispered as far as the royal capital?

Envy was natural, but to wear it so openly...

"He's a capable fighter," the Count mused. "But lacking elsewhere."

The boy lacked the judgment to discern when to crush his emotions and when to unleash them. At best, he could serve as a loyal guard, nothing more. This disappointment was yet another reminder of why the Count had ceased seeking to expand his line.

Still, when his son spoke of handling Enkrid, the Count reflected, "Were it me, I wouldn't waste my time hating him. I'd make him an ally."

There was one thing, however, that gave the Count pause.

"You didn't meet his eyes, did you?"

The son blinked, bewildered by the question.

"No."

The Count chuckled. "Thought so. His eyes...they tell a story."

He paused, mulling over his next words. "He wanted to fight me."

"What? That's absurd!" the son snapped, bristling with indignation.

"And why not?" the Count retorted. Deep down, even he felt a spark of curiosity—a desire to test himself against Enkrid's raw determination and fiery gaze. That kind of fervor ignited a fighter's instinct in anyone worth their salt.

But no, such a clash could never happen. A man like him couldn't afford to indulge in reckless duels. Giving others what they want too easily was a surefire way to lose control.

"Interesting fellow," he thought. "But one I can't leave unchecked."

The Count's mind turned to the matter of control. To bring a man like Enkrid into his fold, debts of the heart worked best. What kind of debt would bind him?

"What of the southern beasts?" his son asked, jolting the Count from his thoughts.

The Count dismissed the question with a wave. "Leave them."

The creatures ravaging the southern lands were the reason for his current expedition. While some had been culled, others had been left untouched. Inevitably, the Border Guard would face the beasts and, when they struggled, they would have no choice but to request his aid.

It was only a matter of time.

"And those who move under cover of night?"

The Count's eyes gleamed. His son referred to the infamous assassins of Geor's Daggers. They had infiltrated the Border Guard—a piece of information the Count had ensured would reach him.

Before the conversation could continue, the driver called out.

"Someone blocks the road ahead. What are your orders?"

"Stop."

If someone had the gall to halt the Count of Molsen's carriage in the northern lands of Fen-Hanil, they were either foolish or bold. The Count suspected the latter.

When the carriage stopped, the figure ahead was shrouded entirely in black.

"Brazen," thought the Count, stepping to the door of his carriage.

"Who are you?"

"Geor's Daggers," came the curt reply.

The son erupted in outrage, leaping from the carriage with a litany of curses. But the assassin stood still, unfazed by the tirade.

"What's your business?" the Count asked, calm and composed.

"To deliver a message."

Unperturbed, the assassin spoke their piece, ignoring the son's fuming presence. But when the son drew his sword, the air grew tense.

Ching!

"Cut off an arm first, then we'll talk," the son declared, his voice heavy with disdain.

Though renowned within his territory for his skill, he was far from a match for the likes of Geor's Daggers. Yet, the assassin standing boldly in their path exuded confidence—a dangerous, unshakable confidence.

"Enough," the Count said sharply.

The son's jaw clenched, his frustration visible as he stepped back.

"I need someone in the Border Guard eliminated," the Count continued.

Assassins such as these thrived on death and shadows, so it was fitting to meet them on their terms. Yet, deep down, this was a test. Would Enkrid survive even against such odds? Half of the Count's intention was to gauge the man's strength; the other half was to rid himself of an increasingly inconvenient thorn.

"Who?"

"Enkrid."

"Impossible."

"...What?"

The assassin rejected the task without hesitation. The bluntness of the refusal gave the Count pause. Did even this shadow-dweller know Enkrid's name? It wouldn't be surprising, given the recent buzz surrounding him.

"He doesn't have to die," the Count offered.

"Impossible."

The response was as firm as before, without the slightest trace of deliberation.

The Count raised an eyebrow. He knew assassins as mercenaries of death who would do anything for the right price. Yet here was one turning him down flat, as if gold and glory meant nothing.

"Are you afraid?" he taunted.

But the assassin didn't flinch. "Impossible," he repeated.

Realizing the futility of pressing further, the Count changed his approach.

"Then just investigate him. Find out if he has family, allies, or possessions. Learn why he's there, what he wants, and how he operates. Do you understand?"

The assassin, still cloaked in black, hesitated before nodding.

"I'll send someone on the second of each month. Exchange information for payment then," the assassin said, his tone cool and detached.

"Don't overreach," the Count warned. "You lot live on blood. Don't forget your place."

To the son, it sounded like the Count was standing up for him. But to the assassin, it felt more like a demand for precision—a reminder not to fail.

Without another word, the shadowy figure withdrew into the darkness.

The Count climbed back into his carriage.

"Father," his son began.

"Control yourself," the Count interrupted. "Revealing your emotions recklessly does you no favors."

As the carriage rolled away, the assassin stood silently, watching until it disappeared into the distance. Finally, he removed his mask, exhaling as if relieved.

"It's been a while," he muttered, his breath catching on the cool night air. The full-body attire felt stifling after years of fighting with his face exposed.

"How strange," he thought. Living in relative comfort had softened him. The battlefield, with its unflinching honesty, had been different. There, fights were straightforward and brutal—except when he struck from the shadows, swift and final.

As his thoughts drifted, a figure approached, joining him on the path to the city.

"What was it like?" she asked.

It was the woman from the brothel, his occasional lover and a master of gathering information. She led a network of spies, all of them adept in their trade.

"Like a snake," he replied. His instincts told him that the Count was calculating, dangerous, and coiled with deceit.

"Not great, then," she remarked dryly.

"Did you find out anything?" he asked.

She nodded. The two walked in tandem, exchanging quiet words.

"There's a connection. At least, that's what I suspect."

Not every contract came through Geor's Daggers. And as things stood, he wasn't in a position to accept just any job. But the clues tied to this one struck a nerve. He had nearly abandoned his search until this lead reignited his purpose.

Revenge. That was why he was here.

The information pointed toward his goal, a resolution he had been chasing for years.

"They're asking you to kill that Company Commander," she said after a moment.

"I refused," he replied.

"Was that wise?" she asked, her tone probing.

The Count, often referred to as the Grand Duke of the North, bore a title that stopped at Earl. This limitation wasn't due to a lack of merit but stemmed from the royal family's watchful restraint. Yet, in strength and influence, he was every bit a Grand Duke.

In truth, if the Count ever resolved to strike, even Geor's Daggers would find him an imposing adversary. Such was the nature of a great noble governing an entire territory.

"That's not my concern," Jaxen replied curtly.

The woman accompanying him nodded internally. Indeed, this was how he'd always been—indifferent to anything outside his narrow focus.

He had often claimed that his Company Commander was losing his mind. But was Jaxen himself much different?

"I'm off," Jaxen announced, stepping toward the city.

"Visit more often," the woman called after him.

He didn't reply.

Though Geor's Daggers had taken on the mission, it wasn't out of loyalty to the Count. There was information to be gleaned—knowledge that could tip the scales.

Jaxen didn't feel burdened by the task. He'd briefly considered informing his Commander in advance but quickly dismissed the idea. There wasn't much to report, after all.

"No family. Obsessed with swords. Dreams of knighthood," he thought.

Ridiculous as it sounded, some people simply lived that way. From the outside, Enkrid's ambitions might appear delusional. After all, he was little more than a former mercenary who had clawed his way up to a Company Commander's rank.

Yet, those who worked closely with Enkrid saw him differently. Even Marcus seemed to have come around to his vision.

Jaxen grumbled to himself. This city was full of lunatics.

Still, he had made his choice. It was time to blend into their midst, becoming less of an assassin and more of a sly alley cat—a soldier guarding the battlefield and a subordinate assisting his mad Commander.

Because if left unchecked, that madman would undoubtedly wreak havoc again.

"The Grand Duke's position is simple," Krais explained at length.

"He wants a ducal title. But the royal family refused. And why? According to the Count, it's because they're trying to marginalize him."

"Why would they do that?"

"They're afraid he might seize the throne. And the Count's response? If they're too weak to keep it, they deserve to lose it. It's the natural order of things, he says."

Krais leaned back, mimicking the Count's mocking tone.

"But the royal family remains silent, hiding behind their laws. 'It's for the good of Naurilia,' they claim. 'If you want the title, earn it.' It's all for show. Anyone who knows court politics knows the Count's true ambitions."

"Strange," Enkrid mused. "The nobles in the Border Guard seem oblivious to all of this."

"They're fools," Krais replied bluntly.

Enkrid nodded. These were nobles in name only, clinging to minor titles and ignorant of real power.

Recently, one such noble had met their end at the hands of Rem's axe, their soul sent to heaven—or perhaps hell. Officially, it was said they were killed by bandits, perhaps the infamous Black Blade. But sharper minds suspected Marcus might have had a hand in it.

Enkrid didn't concern himself with such speculations. What intrigued him was the Count himself.

He had spent years honing his skills, refining his Isolation Technique, and sharpening his instincts under Jaxen's guidance.

"The son…"

The Count's heir failed to stir his fighting spirit. But the Count?

The moment Enkrid saw him, his competitive nature ignited.

The Count's body was like tempered steel, honed and unyielding. But his eyes…

"A mage."

It wasn't often that Enkrid encountered magic users. Still, they existed. Even Rem, who could transform into a leopard, wasn't exactly human.

That wasn't a secret—at least, not to Esther. She seemed unconcerned by it, though Enkrid had noticed long before it was ever mentioned.

Esther had once teased him: "Even during baths?"

Mages pursued the arcane, walking paths of mystery and secrecy. They had little regard for the trivialities of physical contact.

Enkrid, never one to dwell on such things, let it pass.

Lately, though, Esther had been curling up in his arms less frequently. She claimed she no longer needed it as much as before.

It didn't bother him. Not really.

"What are you doing?" Rem's voice cut through his idle thoughts.

Enkrid had been lost in them, overseeing the company's grueling training regimen. From his perch, he observed the soldiers returning from their drills.

"Are they back?"

"Yeah, they're back," Rem said with a mischievous grin. Rem, as always, seemed to thrive on others' suffering.

"Did everyone run the full course?"

Enkrid studied the soldiers and thought grimly, Their stamina is pitiful.

A strong heart was the foundation of everything.

For a full week, the soldiers had done nothing but run. Armed, armored, and exhausted, they ran from dawn until dusk.

The first company suffered the most.

"First Company's training is different from yours," some had boasted early on.

It hadn't taken long for those same soldiers to turn pale and drop their bravado.

"That's unfair! We should all wear light armor!" someone protested.

The First Company had to run fully armed, with heavy gear.

Hearing this, Rem's grin widened. He bolted to the protestor's side—a soldier who had been particularly vocal at the start.

Enkrid had warned Rem to avoid unnecessary violence. "Train them, don't break them," he'd said. But as a drill instructor, Rem relished moments like these.

"Unfair, huh? Then transfer to Second Company! Weren't you bragging about how your training was tougher? Where's that pride now?"

The soldier quickly averted his gaze, knowing full well that Rem wouldn't hesitate to resort to force.

"Not bad," Enkrid thought, watching from his post.

Things seemed to be progressing well.

If anything, he wondered if the training wasn't intense enough.

Such was the thinking of a Commander with his own unyielding standards—one who had endured far worse and expected the same of his men.

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