Chapter 158: The Gratitude of a Mother
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 158: The Gratitude of a Mother
Azpen had been defeated, but it had not broken.
Winning and losing were merely parts of a cycle. No matter how thoroughly one prepared, variables would always arise. Defeat was, in the end, simply a burden to be endured.
We can lose, Abnayor thought. He had always known it was a possibility.
But to lose like this? To have every single preparation shattered? The strategy they had painstakingly crafted seemed to work for a fleeting moment at the start, only to be utterly rejected. Even on a battlefield where they had intentionally taken a step back, to be denied so thoroughly was unheard of.
Azpen’s genius strategist, Abnayor, had been confident. He hadn't expected a perfect victory, but he believed they wouldn't be pushed back easily. After all, he had laid more than a few contingencies.
He had drawn in the Giants. He had hidden their true strength. He had induced complacency in the enemy and even fed them a rough outline of a false strategy.
The core of his plan was simple: split Naurilia’s main force by winning the battle on the detour route. That split was the basic premise of everything that followed, but it had been ruined from the very beginning.
A defeat in a battle they could not afford to lose—that was the spark that set the entire operation ablaze. It was like a single bookshelf toppling over, noisily bringing down every surrounding shelf in a chaotic cascade.
"This is absurd."
It was baffling. Abnayor muttered to himself, sweeping his green hair back with a hand. Under the bright sunlight, he watched a child playing outside the window, a few attendants trotting faithfully behind.
The child waved toward the window. Abnayor leaned his elbow on the sill, keeping the window open. After waving back, he took a moment to enjoy the warmth. The weather was pleasant; the season was turning, and the temperature was rising.
He watched the child climb onto a swing, his eyes tracking the movement while his mind chewed over the start of the operation.
Why?
Why did they lose? The collapse of the entire front had started with that detour route. He mentally scrolled through several documents, tracing the failure back to its source.
When he reached the beginning of the beginning of the beginning...
It started with the soldier duel.
Getting blocked there was the first domino. Then Mitch Hurier died. Ultimately, the defeat was sealed by the performance of those who displayed unexpected martial prowess on that detour route.
Who was at the center of it?
A name appeared in the reports Abnayor had received, sent by an allied commander just before his death.
The Mad Platoon, Platoon Leader Encrid.
The name wasn't unfamiliar. As he dwelled on it, he remembered this was the fellow the Hurier family had sent assassins after.
A mere platoon leader? Could such a man truly be the origin of this entire catastrophe? He didn't know for sure, but his intuition—the gut feeling of a master strategist—told him so.
It won't be a total loss.
When the Hurier family had sent assassins, it had seemed like a petty, useless endeavor, but perhaps they had the right idea all along. Abnayor decided to employ assassins for the future—specifically, for the next war following the peace treaty.
He intended to kill a single platoon leader. Since there was a long-standing guild operating within Azpen, using them would leave no trail back to the palace.
Having organized his thoughts, he moved. Pushing himself off the windowsill, he summoned the assassin guild through his subordinates and placed a request in the name of the royal palace.
"If we cross the border, the pay is tripled. We reserve the right to reject unreasonable requests."
To the guild’s response, Abnayor delivered a simple reply: a slip of paper with a sum of Krona written on it.
"A single platoon leader? You're spending this much Krona on just one person?"
It was a commission fee large enough to buy a mansion in the capital of the Azpen Principality. The assassin guild had no reason to refuse. They weren't being asked to kill a prominent noble or a key military figure. It was just a mere platoon leader; excluding the risk of crossing the border, it was an easy job.
The guild accepted and made their move. They selected three assassins and sent them out.
*
"A failure?"
The guild master realized he had taken the job too lightly.
"Send intermediate assassins."
Come to think of it, hadn't that half-elf failed before as well? She had been intermediate too. Well, he had sent three this time to account for that.
"Send two more."
The assassins departed.
"Boss."
"Another failure?"
No, this was strange. Why did they drop dead every single time they were sent?
"And they were intermediate rank?"
"Yes."
What was going on? Should he send a senior assassin? At this rate, the losses were becoming significant.
"Send a senior."
They had to finish the job. Above all, it was a direct order from the palace. Though they operated externally as an independent guild, the 'Swamp of Monter' was essentially owned by the royal family. The guild master knew this well. If they crossed the palace, they would have no future in Azpen.
And so, a senior assassin departed.
"What on earth is this!"
It was a total failure. The assassin ranked within the top ten of the Swamp of Monter had vanished. No contact could be made. Unless a friendly mage had suddenly appeared and dispelled the tracking imprint carved into his body, he had to be dead.
Sure enough, two days later, the assassin's head was delivered directly to the secret mansion of the Swamp of Monter.
"Send word to the palace."
If they proceeded like this, the damage would be catastrophic. There was something—or someone—on the opponent's side. A senior assassin hadn't even managed to escape; he had been slaughtered. And their secret location had been compromised?
There is an intervention by a group superior to ours.
"That is my judgment."
The guild master entered the palace and explained everything. He conveyed that it would be impossible to proceed any further.
Abnayor swallowed a hollow laugh. An assassin guild failing?
It was utterly baffling to him as well, but he had neither the leeway nor the resources to push further.
"Let's leave it be."
Abnayor gave up. He was too busy with the internal politics of Azpen to pour more strength into this. If there was something special about that fellow... if there really was something...
I'll see him again next time.
With that, Abnayor cast the name Encrid to the back of his mind. If they were destined to meet on the battlefield, he would simply adapt. It clearly meant the man was not fated to die by an assassin's blade.
*
A shadow had been lingering around the barracks for several days. The movements were familiar, using a disguise technique that made it difficult to realize it was the same person unless one observed closely.
Sachsen quieted his footsteps and held his breath. He completely erased his presence, disrupting the intruder's senses.
What is this?
An assassin. Sachsen recognized the type at a glance; they were in the same line of work.
A thin thread unspooled from Sachsen's hand—a thick cord coated with black ink and a special oil to prevent light reflection. It wrapped around the assassin's neck. Before the man could react, Sachsen pulled the thread with a sharp crack. Pinning the man's back with his elbow, he pulled tight, snapping the neck bone.
With a sickening pop, the head tilted to the side. If the neck breaks, you die. A simple fact of life.
Sachsen examined the corpse. Was this person at a level that would have been difficult for others to deal with? Among Sachsen's people in the Border Guard, most were intelligence specialists rather than front-line combatants. Not that they would just stand by and be killed, though.
The third one.
It was the third attack in the three months since returning from the battle. This one had deliberately clung to the barracks wall, staying there for three days while disguising himself as a beggar, an old man, and a merchant.
A capable fellow.
Such professionals were entering the territory where he stayed. The target they aimed for was deep inside the barracks. If they had targeted a company commander, a battalion commander, or a noble, they would have moved differently. The first ones who came had even disguised themselves as recruits.
Their goal was too clear.
The Mad Platoon.
Following the flow, the target became visible. It was the platoon leader. They were targeting Encrid. But since Encrid hadn't stepped out of the barracks or the training ground for three whole months, they had tried to infiltrate instead.
"Crazy bastards."
Deploying this much force just to catch a single platoon leader?
Sachsen hoisted the corpse onto his shoulder. Hidden by two large trees near the barracks wall, he moved through the shadows to avoid prying eyes and laid the body down in an alleyway where vagrants slept. He arranged the body into a sleeping posture, bought a bottle of cheap alcohol, splashed it around the corpse, and left the bottle beside him. This way, the authorities wouldn't bother looking for a cause of death; they would just assume another vagrant had succumbed to the cold or the drink.
After disposing of the body, Sachsen entered the red-light district. He was a regular there. As he walked in, several women glanced at him; an appearance like his was uncommon in such a place.
Sachsen ignored the stares and entered a private room. Inside, a young, blonde beauty welcomed him, half-naked. When Sachsen signaled with his left hand, the woman spoke.
"No one's listening."
"Any problems?"
"No more problems."
Previously, they had missed a half-elf assassin entering the territory. Even if they hadn't been watching the entire region, it was an embarrassing oversight. Sachsen was bothered by that incident; his pride was wounded. Since more assassins had kept trickling in after that, he had killed them the moment they arrived.
As long as he remained in the Border Guard, he would not let another assassin or any other shadow-dweller slip through. This wasn't necessarily because someone was targeting the platoon leader. Absolutely not.
Sachsen leaned his back against the door, expressionless as always. The woman, observing him closely, spoke again.
"They're from the Swamp of Monter. What should we do?"
The Swamp of Monter was an assassin guild rooted in Azpen.
"Let them know this is my territory. Do it our way."
It was a command to kill anyone who crossed the line. The woman nodded. Though it might spark a feud between guilds, it would be a silent war that the world would never know about.
Afterward, Sachsen spent the night with her. Though they were connected by work, they also desired each other. They were as close to lovers as people in their profession could be.
Waking in the early dawn, the woman had her subordinates decapitate the corpse Sachsen had killed. They sent the head straight to one of the Swamp of Monter’s strongholds.
It was a warning. If they still attacked after this, the consequences would be on them.
After that, the Swamp of Monter never attacked again. It was only natural. If that guild operated with Azpen as their stage, Sachsen’s people operated with the entire continent as theirs.
*
"Is this the right way?" Krais asked, eyeing the gloomy back alley. The air smelled of rot, and the ground was a slurry of filth he didn't want to step on.
Krais's question was directed at Sachsen. Encrid also glanced over. When Encrid had asked if he could obtain whistle daggers while gathering supplies, Sachsen had simply said, "I can get them," and told him to follow.
Encrid had thought there wouldn't be time for this, given how busy they had been. Sachsen had barely even been at the barracks lately, preoccupied with the red-light district and other hidden corners of the city.
Sachsen didn't even acknowledge Krais's words. If he deemed a comment worthless, he didn't react. It was the usual Sachsen. His silence was the answer: Yes, this is the place.
Krais didn't press the issue. It wasn't as if he couldn't handle a little dirt.
"This way," Sachsen said indifferently, stepping inside.
Encrid followed. He had wanted to find a skilled blacksmith, but he already knew there was no easy answer there. Krais had already looked into it as much as possible.
Behind Encrid, Frok followed. For some reason, Esther had come along too. As they entered the filth-piled alley, Esther leaped onto the wall and began prowling along the roofs.
"That thing is a sly creature," Luagarne remarked, watching the panther.
Encrid half-agreed. She really did act like a human sometimes.
Luagarne wore the boots made for Frok. They were of a unique design, with eight straps tightly binding the instep and a base made of sturdy wood. Every time she walked, a rhythmic clack echoed against the stone floor.
"We're here," Sachsen said, stopping.
There were many things to prepare for their upcoming mission, but Encrid specifically wanted to pack some whistle daggers.
"...A lot of guests today."
An old woman, who had set up a stall right in front of an open door, spoke. With a crystal ball, faded curly blonde hair, and wrinkled hands, she looked every bit the fortune-teller.
"It's here?" Encrid asked.
Encrid had seen his fair share of things. Black markets? He had frequented them. During his mercenary days, he had even seen illegal slave auctions. But a whistle dagger from an old fortune-teller? Whistle daggers were rare—weapons you didn't even see in most black markets.
"Yes," Sachsen replied. He spoke with his hands in sign language. Though Encrid didn't know the meaning, it must have been the correct signal, as the old woman snorted in amusement.
"What item do you seek?" the fortune-teller asked.
"Whistle daggers. The more, the better," Encrid answered.
"The payment?"
"From this side." Encrid nudged Krais forward.
"Yes, I suppose I must pay," Krais sighed. Even though he was stepping forward reluctantly, he looked generous on the surface. Since he had decided to spend the money anyway, Krais loosened his purse strings. After all, one had to invest to reap profits.
"I will send them to your unit."
"Do you know who I am?" Encrid asked, suspicious.
The old fortune-teller cackled. "In this territory right now, even if people don't know the battalion commander's name, there isn't a soul who doesn't know yours."
What on earth did that mean? He wanted to ask more, but the woman simply began packing up her stall, gathering her crystal ball and tools.
"Well then, farewell."
She slipped into her house before he could stop her. Watching her pack, it was clearly a practiced routine. She folded the stall in a flash, finishing the cleanup in the time it took to take a few breaths.
Encrid wondered how Sachsen knew about a place like this—an item that even Krais had given up on finding. Still, he didn't ask. His goal was the daggers, not Sachsen's secrets.
"Will she really deliver? I don't trust her," Krais muttered. His default setting was doubt.
"If she can't, then so be it," Encrid said, moving on. Since he was out, he planned to pick up a few things from the market. He wanted to stop by a jerky shop with excellent seasoning and visit a blacksmith to have his armor repaired.
The weather was hot, so wearing a gambeson was out of the question, but he couldn't go unprotected. He thought a loose-fitting leather armor might be a good compromise. He had discarded his old set; he had tried to keep wearing it, but one day Esther had completely shredded it with her claws.
"I think I should sell your claws to pay for the new armor," he joked, looking up at Esther on the roofs.
"Kihr." The panther let out a low growl, as if saying, Don't make me laugh.
As he reached the jerky shop to place an order...
"Thank you," the owner greeted him out of nowhere.
"For what?" Encrid tilted his head.
The owner, a woman with specks of white hair, bowed her head twice more. "Out of gratitude. As the mother of a foolish son, how could I possibly take Krona from the man who saved him? Take as much as you want."
"Huh?"
Encrid hadn't realized. He had simply fought with all his might. He had risked his life and charged forward, struggling desperately just to survive and advance. And because he had fought like that...
"Thank you. If not for my boy, I would have no reason to live."
He received the heartfelt thanks of a mother who had raised her son alone.
The battlefield, and what had happened there... many had been saved because of Encrid. And many of those soldiers were locals from the Border Guard.
"The armor—just give me half price for it."
"If you need a leather canteen, this one is much better."
"Are your boots still intact? I have a new batch. If you bring your platoon, I'll measure them and make boots for everyone."
"I have nothing to give you but flowers."
"Please, take this."
"Would you like an apple?"
"These are dried fruits I gathered myself."
"Shall I give you some charcoal?"
The market merchants, who hadn't seen Encrid for three months, treated him like a hero. It was something Encrid had never expected.
"Tch, this makes me feel good for no reason," Krais muttered, though his smile mirrored Encrid’s own feelings.
Though he hadn't struggled specifically to save people, protecting those around him was a conviction he held dear. The thought occurred to him anew.
What is a knight?
A person who protects.
A person who must protect the smiles of the people and move forward, establishing his own path. For Encrid, it was a deeply satisfying day.