Chapter 149: Sensing Honor
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 149: Sensing Honor
Petals of blended red and pink fluttered in the wind, dancing between the leaves of the towering trees behind the platform. In the flowerbed at the rear of the training ground, yellow blossoms were in brilliant, full bloom.
It was a strange sight—a flowerbed in a place reeking of sweat, where the ring of clashing steel never ceased. Perhaps it was a remnant from the days when the Border Guard’s station was still a trading hub. Even after the transition, maintaining the flowerbed had remained a duty of sorts for the battalion commander in charge of the territory. Supposedly, it served as proof that the region was safe.
Winter had passed, and spring had arrived. How long had it been since he last stopped to look at flowers?
"They are a symbol that this territory is secure."
A florist in the city had once told him that. A few specialists were even tasked with managing the Border Guard’s gardens.
A thought occurred to Encrid as he gazed at the blooms. It was important to relax his shoulders. He couldn't afford to be too stiff.
Loose, but not slack.
He didn't think such poetic reflection suited him, but perhaps looking at flowers and allowing himself to unwind was a necessary part of the path. As the tension drained from his body, the shape of the petals began to look like straight, outstretched swords.
What was the name of that flower again? He couldn't recall the formal name, but he remembered its nickname vividly, earned from its spiky red leaves.
The Sword Flower.
They said it was a bloom that only responded to the magic of spring. Staring at those sword-like petals, a question surfaced in his mind: How can I make my vertical slashes cleaner?
With that question, a journey of contemplation began. He thought of that mustachioed man—a man who had walked a path entirely different from his own. He possessed a level of refinement that Encrid hadn't even sensed in Ragna’s blade. It was a sword forged through the perfect union of effort and talent.
Encrid could feel it tangibly. He wanted it. He wanted to embrace it, possess it, swallow it whole, and digest it until it was his own. He still yearned for it, driven by a deep, gnawing thirst. To a traveler wandering a desert, a single sip of water was everything. To Encrid, that was what swords and knights, dreams and techniques represented.
Slowly.
If you run too fast, you’re bound to lose your footing. Besides, had anything ever truly gone well for him when he rushed? There were things one could only see precisely because they didn't despair or grow frustrated by their own lack of talent.
It was about finding the balance—neither impatient nor lazy. The middle ground between those two opposing speeds.
Loose, but not slack.
Because he maintained that balance, he could run at the fastest speed he was capable of.
Lost in these thoughts, Encrid stepped onto the platform. His reflections ended as he reached the top, where Marcus stood waiting. They stood face-to-face, their eyes meeting. The corners of Marcus’s eyes crinkled softly, giving him the look of someone about to pull a fun prank.
The training ground was silent. The very atmosphere felt different—a warm breeze drifted through the gentle sunlight, and petals swayed in time with the wind. It was a peaceful, tranquil afternoon. It reminded him of the moment Audin’s divine power had touched his body; the same sense of comfort and safety enveloped him.
"I gave it some thought," Marcus spoke, his voice resonating in the quiet air. He wasn't shouting, but his words carried clearly to those nearby.
"About what, sir?" Encrid replied, standing at attention.
"About what would satisfy you. What should I give a soldier who has achieved such monumental merit?"
At those words, thoughts of a high-quality sword or perhaps a heavy purse of Krona crossed Encrid’s mind. But would he really be satisfied with just that? Hardly. It would be pleasant, certainly, but... what if he went one step further?
Magic armor?
By now, he had a rough idea of the value of the leather armor protecting his torso. He also knew its value was slowly declining. Spells were not eternal; he had heard that magic equipment had its limits. He had once wondered if that was true, but combat had proven it. His leather armor didn't have much life left in it.
His leather gauntlets were likely magic equipment as well. If they weren't, their durability made no sense. If not for these gauntlets, he wouldn't have just sprained his wrist during his fight with Frok—he would have lost his hand entirely.
That’s a horrifying thought.
If he lost a hand, he would have become a one-armed swordsman. While losing a hand was better than losing an entire arm, both were absolute nightmares. Thinking about it now, there were so many things he had to be careful of.
Losing his life? It was painful, but in his case, almost welcome. But if he suffered a crippling injury and had to carry that burden from today into tomorrow...
That would give me too much to worry about.
Not that Encrid brooded over it for long. He wasn't the type to overthink, and in truth, he didn't have the luxury to do so.
Distractions.
This went beyond relaxing his shoulders; these were useless thoughts that only got in the way. He needed to discard them. Even dedicating himself entirely to the sword and his dream wouldn't be enough.
Could he truly become a knight? It was a question he still held, and the answer had yet to come.
"So, I thought about it," Marcus continued. Encrid focused, adopting a posture of utmost attention. "I decided I should give you a gift of true sincerity. You can look forward to it, Platoon Leader."
Marcus spoke of expectations, but Encrid knew himself. He rarely showed emotion over material things. Honestly, he expected very little.
Afterward, Battalion Commander Marcus presented him with a pouch of Krona and a fancy dagger. It was a weapon awarded only to those who had achieved great merits for the royal family. When Encrid gripped it, he realized the balance was terrible. It had no practical use; it was merely a ceremonial piece to prove one's status.
"By bestowing this royal dagger upon you, I guarantee your status. Show this in the capital at any time, and you shall be welcomed as a guest of the royal family."
Encrid thought it was really nothing special. Sincerely.
But the soldiers watching from below the platform thought otherwise.
"...Encrid."
"Encrid."
"Encrid."
There were no childish cheers or boisterous roars. The soldiers simply chanted his name in unison. It wasn't a battle cry—it was a low, rhythmic murmur. An everyday mumble. Words spilling naturally from their lips. Yet, with hundreds of soldiers speaking as one, it struck his ears like a roaring tide.
"Heh, it seems they’re happier about this than you are. Turn around."
At Marcus’s words, Encrid turned. It was quite a sight. Ten days had passed since they returned from the edge of the battlefield. He did feel closer to the men in the unit than before. Those who had previously jeered at him with filthy remarks now bowed their heads. Those seeing him for the first time looked at him with eyes full of respect and admiration.
He had proven himself on the battlefield.
Back then, the battalion commander had ordered them to cheer. He had thought that was a decent experience. But this was different. The platform was exactly the height of a man, allowing him to look down at the heat radiating from every single soldier. He could feel that heat taking shape, enveloping him.
He realized anew that his own deeds had created this very moment.
What makes a knight?
Skill? They said if you were only good at swinging a sword, you weren't a knight.
"If that’s all you wanted, you should have just worked as a mercenary."
The words of a sword instructor from a distant territory still lingered in his mind. He had asked back then: What defines a knight?
"Skill is a given. But a knight is one who proves himself by building honor and achievements upon that skill. Though things have changed lately, that was the truth in the past—back when legends were written."
Did he want to be someone who was merely good at swinging a sword? No. Though his childhood dream had started that way, he had eventually discovered the limits of his talent. He had been gutted by the sword of a child far younger than him. He had lost his companions. He had realized that skill and character did not always go hand in hand.
Yet, knowing his limits, he still swung his sword. He did so with single-minded devotion, as if this very moment were his last. As if living a today where tomorrow would never come. He threw himself into the repeating waves of time, and though swept away, he never forgot the sword. He clung to his faded, tattered dream.
Where did the conviction that sustained Encrid for so long begin?
A knight is someone who upholds the standards they set for themselves.
Encrid believed that. A knight was one who moved forward without forgetting honor. He had resolved to be such a man. So, perhaps it was only natural that he felt joy in a place like this—standing before them, having proven himself.
Sensing honor.
"Amusing," Encrid murmured softly. It was hard to read any emotion from his voice, but Marcus, standing behind him, felt something unfamiliar in the words.
It was just like before. Something he had forgotten for a long time. The sword and the light.
Is it passion?
Marcus smiled. He thought Encrid was a truly fascinating fellow. He was incredibly curious to see how the gift he had prepared would affect the man before him.
"That is all," Marcus announced.
Encrid turned and offered a sharp military salute.
"Encrid."
He stepped down among the soldiers, who continued to chant his name like a mantra. The men parted to the left and right, opening a path for him.
"Must be nice."
He saw his platoon members waiting for him. Rem was grinning. Sachsen stood with his weight on one leg, looking on indifferently.
"You looked like an avatar answering our prayers, brother," Audin murmured, uttering his usual incomprehensible mysticism.
"Are we going back now?" asked Ragna, who was clearly bored by the ceremony.
"Nice," said Krais, who couldn't care less as long as there was no Krona involved.
Beside them, Andrew and Mac called out his name with flushed faces.
"Encrid!"
"Platoon Leader!"
Well, this was far beyond just "not bad." It would be stranger if he didn't find this enjoyable.
"Let’s go back."
Even so, nothing changed. Ten days after their return, the Border Guard was quiet. The award ceremony was over. What was left to do? Training, of course. He was already agonizing over how to refine his next strike.
"Hey! Today is a party! Let’s drink ourselves to death!" Marcus roared from atop the platform.
Seriously, was it okay for a battalion commander to act so wild? Weren't the people standing behind him nobles? Sure enough, as Encrid glanced back, he saw a group of nobles frowning. Yet, for some reason, none of them stepped forward to complain.
Why? Had Marcus threatened to chop off their heads if they spoke up?
No, that’s the kind of thing Rem would do.
Marcus was a commander from the capital. He had no reason to do something so reckless. Then why were they reacting like that? Encrid decided to stop there and ignore the nobles' circumstances. There was no need to dig into it. It wasn't like knowing would change anything.
"Party!"
"Woohoo!"
"Awesome! This is great!"
The crowd of soldiers roared. It felt like his eardrums would burst.
"Are they serving the good stuff? If they give us cheap wine after all this, I’m going to split that bastard’s skull open with my axe," Rem said with a grin.
The man seemed to be in a good mood again. The only problem was that whenever Rem was in a good mood, he felt like splitting his superior's skull.
Well, I suppose I should be glad it’s not my head.
Come to think of it, Rem had never seriously threatened Encrid’s life. He occasionally joked about cracking Encrid's head open to see what was inside, but those words carried no real intent.
"How annoying," Ragna voiced his honest feelings.
Encrid wanted to cast his vote with Ragna. He just wanted to train. He wanted to master the sword of the mustachioed man—the one he had experienced with his own body—as quickly as possible.
"A stiff mind can only see stiff things. When it’s time to rest, you must rest."
As he was thinking this, Sachsen spoke up. With his sharp senses, he seemed to have read Encrid’s mind perfectly.
"Enjoy your rest, everyone. Uh, I’ll be back in a bit."
Krais’s voice drifted from behind, growing distant as he ran away. When a party was held, gambling dens naturally opened up. That was Krais’s playground. His goal wasn't to actually gamble, but to grow the pot and take a cut of the house fees. Krais still couldn't understand those who squandered their Krona on luck.
"I mean, seriously. Why throw Krona at randomly dealt cards? If you run into a professional, it won't even be random—you’ll definitely get cleaned out."
There was no reason to spend Krona on gambling. It was quite logical. Krais disappeared into the crowd. Encrid watched his retreating back, still finding it strange that the big-eyed soldier was such a shrewd strategist.
"It seems there will be no skull-splitting today, barbarian brother," Audin murmured.
Up ahead, the battalion commander was raising a bottle of alcohol with gusto.
"This is the good stuff! Today, everyone drinks the same spirits! Any objections? If you have one, come at me!"
That man isn't normal either.
Marcus shouted, offering the alcohol and telling everyone to enjoy. As Encrid stared at the scene, Finn approached.
"Want a drink?"
"Hmm?"
It felt like a long time since he had last touched alcohol. He’d had no reason to; he had been too busy training. Alcohol dulled physical control, which meant he wouldn't be able to train properly. Enjoying the party and drinking were two different things. He was about to politely decline when a voice cut in from behind.
"Excuse me, human woman, but I believe that spot is mine. He is my fiancé."
Encrid froze.
"...Fiancé? Looks like an elf," Finn muttered.
Encrid took a step back as the Elf Company Commander approached with silent, predatory steps.
"Drink with me."
Was this an order or a proposal? As a strange tension formed between Finn and the Elf Company Commander...
"Kyaaa!"
Esther squeezed in between them. After letting out a fierce growl, Esther snuggled right into Encrid’s arms.
The situation was spiraling.
"...Damn charming bastard," Rem muttered, watching the scene.
Before Encrid could even protest that it was a misunderstanding, the surrounding soldiers cheered, calling him by a different name this time.
"Charming Platoon Leader!"
Dammit. Just when he thought they had finally forgotten about it, the "charming" nickname had exploded once again.