Chapter 172: Crazy Encrid's Wall
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 172: Crazy Encrid's Wall
Among the crowd was the Gate Guard Captain who had been on duty that morning. Having witnessed the entire spectacle, he was filled with nothing but raw admiration.
‘That man is a certified lunatic.’
He had seen it all—Encrid, drenched from head to toe in the gore of demonic beasts and monsters.
‘Is he actually insane?’
He had been fleeing, covered in blood. But what about the panther? Had he used it as bait to escape? No, that wasn't it.
The problem was his direction. After crawling through the dirt, Encrid hadn't retreated; he had charged even deeper into the enemy lines. It was a path no one in their right mind would ever choose.
The captain had also watched Encrid carve a bloody path through the horde to slay the gnoll at the rear. Having seen that, how could anyone call him sane?
Only then did the words of the big-eyed man, Krais, truly resonate.
"They call him the Mad Platoon Leader in the Border Guard."
A truly, properly crazy bastard. Yet, because it was the act of such a madman, the captain’s heart couldn't help but race. Simply watching was no longer enough.
The captain was clever and quick-witted. Looking at how the situation had unfolded, he realized there had been a spy embedded within the mercenary group.
‘What if he hadn't stepped up?’
What if he hadn't pulled off that suicidal stunt? What if they had just left the spy alone? What would have happened then?
What about this village? That pack of gnolls? There were hundreds of those hyena-like demonic beasts alone—could they have handled that?
Absolutely not. Nothing but total annihilation would have awaited them. Because that man had done something insane, the outcome had shifted.
The gnoll standing at the back had moved with unnatural grace. Even from a distance, its movements had left afterimages. It was clearly the leader of the colony.
And that madman had killed it.
‘How many days would we have lasted?’
If that leader gnoll had lived to command the colony? If it had led a coordinated assault? He didn't know. The only certainty was that he would be a dead man right now.
Deutsch Fullman thought the same. They had watched the scene together; how could his conclusion be any different?
The two men agreed on two facts, and they acted accordingly.
First, Encrid was insane.
Second, they could absolutely not let him die.
How could they? Even if the hero who saved them, their comrades, and their homes was a madman, they couldn't just stand by and watch him perish. Both Deutsch and the captain shared that sentiment, which was why they had charged forward.
In the end, their choice was correct.
Esther's support, Encrid's desperate struggle, and the counterattack by Deutsch and his men—all the pieces fell into place. Just as Encrid's group narrowly reached the gates with the enemy hot on their heels, boulders began raining down from above.
"Die, you bastards!"
In the chaos, someone had the presence of mind to gather stones and hurl them from atop the wall.
With a heavy thud, a rounded stone the size of a human head crashed into the spine of a hyena beast.
Crack.
The stone crushed bone and muscle before bouncing away with a dull thud. The beast collapsed, its ribs protruding through its ruptured organs.
Squeal!
A neighboring gnoll was struck squarely in the skull and slumped over, clutching its head in agony. This defense was only possible because of the nearby quarry and the piles of gathered stone.
"Fire!"
The volley of arrows that followed served as grim ornaments for the beasts. Having lost their leader, the creatures began to scatter, fleeing into the wilderness.
"We survived," Encrid said calmly upon his return.
He began packing his gear as if he had merely returned from a casual stroll. He laid his blood-stained swords side by side and began stripping off his armor. Bruises and shallow cuts littered his body. He had pushed himself to the limit, knowing he couldn't carve a path if he tried to dodge every single blow.
While these injuries were a calculated trade-off for Encrid, how did it look to the onlookers?
"Fuck," Deutsch muttered. He shook his head in disbelief.
How could he be so calm? Why was he so nonchalant? It wasn't just nerves of steel; it was as if the man had discarded his survival instinct entirely.
"I think I deserve an explanation now," Deutsch said, slumped on the ground. His tone carried a new weight of respect; he knew they had just walked out of the jaws of death.
"Sure, let's talk," Encrid nodded. The frantic, reckless aura was gone, replaced by a perfect, chilling composure.
How could anyone remain so serene after that?
‘I can't figure him out at all,’ Deutsch thought, but he kept his mouth shut. Regardless of his mystery, the man before him was their savior.
Encrid, for his part, was an expert at making excuses. This wasn't his first or even his hundredth time doing so.
"I was doing my morning training. The faces of the two men on the watchtower looked familiar."
An excuse didn't need to be perfect; it just had to be plausible. Since the threat was neutralized, who would argue?
"Then it hit me—they were cultists. I only caught a passing glimpse of them during my mercenary days, so it took me a while to remember."
His voice was utterly devoid of conviction. It sounded like he was just throwing random words together—a blatant, shameless lie. It was as if he were saying, 'Just accept this so we can move on.'
Deutsch felt incredibly uneasy, but just as Encrid expected, he couldn't press further. Encrid’s actions had been proven right, and the matter was resolved. Moreover, it involved rooting out cultists. And the man before him was, without a doubt, the hero of the hour.
"They're out of sight now!"
The voice came from atop the wall. It was Krais. When had he even climbed up there?
Actually, it made perfect sense. Who else could have used their silver tongue to rally the people to throw stones? It certainly wasn't the panicked vigilantes. It was Krais who had persuaded the laborers and artisans to hurl the rocks.
As soon as Krais finished speaking, the people on the wall and watchtower erupted in cheers.
"They're retreating!"
"Ugh... we’re alive."
"Phew..."
The laborers, the vigilantes, and the residents had united to hold the wall. They had survived on the very brink of death. It was as if they were falling off a cliff when someone caught them by the sleeve.
How could they not be grateful? They turned their eyes toward the man who had saved them.
There stood the man with black hair and blue eyes.
"What? It's the truth," he claimed in a dry, monotonous tone.
But not a single person cared about the quality of his lie. Not even Deutsch.
"Sure, let's go with that," Deutsch replied.
What truly mattered? Unless they were fools, they knew exactly why they were still breathing.
"Who did you say that man was?" one of the artisans asked Krais. They had become acquainted over the last few days thanks to Krais's friendly nature.
Krais slumped against the battlements, his legs finally giving out. "Encrid. He's a madman."
He was completely out of his mind. How could anyone charge into that hellscape and fight like that?
"Kyarrr."
Esther, who had approached silently, nodded in fervent agreement. Krais looked at her; for the first time, they were in complete accord.
Esther was just as dumbfounded. He had asked her to watch his back, only to go on a suicide run. If things had gone even slightly wrong, the crucial item for lifting her curse could have been lost or damaged.
"Kyaa, kyaa!" Esther shrieked, thoroughly displeased.
"Right, right. That man is definitely crazy," the artisan murmured, repeating the name. "Encrid, Encrid... No, it doesn't roll off the tongue. 'Crazy Wall'... Yes, that sounds right."
"Huh?"
Krais turned his head, and the artisan spoke with absolute certainty. "That's the name of the wall we're going to build."
Krais wondered if it was really okay to name a fortification like that, but he didn't have the energy to stop him. He was too exhausted.
"Maybe 'Crazy Encrid's Wall' sounds better," the artisan mused, already weighing his options.
The sun was setting. The long day was finally drawing to a close.
*
Luagarne had moved the moment she heard Encrid's warning, heading straight for the cultist's house.
Finding him was easy. Men who could stubbornly resist a Frok's questioning were rare.
The cultist was in the middle of a tryst with a woman when she arrived. Ignoring the scene, she called him out. He stepped to the door half-naked, and Luagarne confirmed his face. It was the man with the face of a freshwater fish, the one who always trailed behind Deutsch Fullman.
"Is it you?"
At her abrupt question, the man tilted his head awkwardly. "Pardon? What is this about?" He offered a good-natured smile.
Of course, through the aesthetic lens of a Frok, it was anything but pleasant. To her, he just looked like a fish.
‘Is it him? Or not?’
Luagarne decided on a simple test. She stepped forward and threw a punch. It wasn't meant to be lethal, just a probing strike.
However, to the man, it looked like a death sentence. This was a strike delivered by a Frok, a member of a natural-born warrior race. She threw her weight into it, twisting her ankle for power. Her fist moved like a flash of light; if it connected, his head would surely explode.
The man sensed the mortal peril instinctively, and in that split second, his hidden power reacted.
Hum.
A brief vibration filled the air.
Thud!
Luagarne's fist was blocked by a translucent barrier—milky and dull.
It wasn't a spell. Luagarne had hunted and broken more cultists than even the Holy Inquisitors. She recognized it instantly. It was a defensive Authority unique to the cult.
Encrid’s memory was indeed flawless.
"It is you."
The Frok's cheeks puffed up. A mixture of joy and predatory anticipation filled her.
"How did you find out?!" the cultist hissed.
The moment his identity was exposed, he acted. He tapped the ground twice with his left foot. Even though the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult was a wicked heresy, its followers never dwindled. The reason was simple: it granted power far too easily.
The Authority the man had obtained upon becoming a priest flared to life. With two stomps, he vanished.
Whoosh!
Luagarne's whip lashed out, gouging a deep furrow into the dirt where he had stood a moment before.
‘Look at this bastard.’
The moment he realized he was compromised, he didn't rely on his barrier; he fled. It wasn't spatial teleportation—such high-tier magic couldn't be cast so casually. It was an Authority that accelerated his body for a short duration.
She was familiar with this, too. Hunting these rats used to be her job.
"Hmph, a mere Frok," a voice echoed from ten paces away. "I am a priest. Do you wish to die? Then come. I shall use your corpse as fertilizer to expand our influence."
Gurgle.
The Frok responded with action rather than words. She kicked off the ground in a full-on assault.
The priest hastily stomped his right foot twice more. This time, it was the Authority of levitation.
Whoosh!
Between the acceleration and the flight, he narrowly avoided the whip that sliced through the air where he had been standing.
"Sure. Once I catch you, I'm pulling your tongue out first," Luagarne said cheerfully, her cheeks puffing as she let out a low gurgle.
Deciding it was time to retreat, the priest took to the sky. Luagarne pursued him, and the two engaged in a deadly game of cat and mouse for nearly the entire day.
In the end, Luagarne lost him. She had chased him for hours, but the bastard had a trump card: summoning magic. It was a massive headache. She was forced to abandon the chase to deal with the creatures he had summoned to block her path.
"We shall meet again!" he shouted as he fled.
She only hoped he was telling the truth. Now that she knew his tricks, her resolve was set.
‘Next time I see him, I'm breaking his legs first.’
It was late at night when the Frok finally returned to the village. Having taken a long detour around the quarry, she finally saw the aftermath of the battle in front of the pioneer village.
The sheer brutality of the struggle was evident. The ground and walls were stained with blood, and the air was thick with the scent of adrenaline and gore. The atmosphere was peculiar—somber, yet strangely triumphant.
And amidst the wreckage stood the man who was the reason Luagarne had stayed, even when she should have moved on long ago.
The man named Encrid.