Chapter 219: I'd Like to Have a Go at Him
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 219: I'd Like to Have a Go at Him
Despite the festive atmosphere gripping the territory, the guards remained at their posts.
Guided by them, two carriages crossed the territory and entered the heart of the marketplace. There was no justification to stop them; publicly, they were allies, and this was the procession of a high-ranking noble.
A coachman with thick, muscular forearms climbed down and opened the carriage door. From the first carriage, a man with a finely groomed mustache stepped out.
“Count Molsen?” Marcus murmured, moving forward to greet him.
“I heard there was a victory celebration, so I decided to drop by on my way through,” the Count replied.
He was the last person anyone expected to see here—especially in the middle of the Border Guard marketplace.
The squad leader serving as the guard chief couldn't bring himself to step forward, watching the scene with visible anxiety. Only when Marcus gave him a subtle nod did the chief quietly withdraw.
A strange, heavy aura radiated from the Count and his entourage, seemingly sewing the mouths of the onlookers shut. Amidst the sudden silence, the Count’s voice rang out—a voice with a firm, unyielding core. It was filled with the absolute confidence of a man who believed in himself and understood the full weight of his authority.
“I stopped by because I was curious to see the face of this ‘hero of the battlefield’ I’ve heard so much about.”
Count Molsen was bold and direct. His lack of hesitation only made him appear more brimming with confidence. Despite his status as a great noble, he wore no expensive satin or silk. He was clad in thin cotton, yet an air of undeniable elegance clung to him. With well-toned muscles visible beneath the fabric, it was clear he did not neglect his physical training.
Even standing on muddy ground made soggy by the alcohol spilled by the rowdy crowd, his demeanor left no doubt that he was a true noble. He was an impressive man.
It was the first time someone had made such a strong impression on Encrid at first glance.
“Well? I heard you have a hidden gem here. Won’t you show him to me as well?”
The Count’s relaxed voice echoed. Even then, Marcus did not immediately speak. The two seemed to be old acquaintances.
Encrid, watching the situation unfold from a few paces away, heard the Count calling for him.
Should I step forward?
Or should he stay back?
Glancing at Marcus, Encrid saw a grim expression he had never seen before. Hadn't this man smirked and chuckled even in the heat of war?
“The back of that bastard’s head looks like it’s begging to be split open,” Rem muttered beside him.
His speech wasn't slurred, but wanting to crack the skull of a noble he’d just met could hardly be called normal behavior. Leaving the drunken Rem aside, Encrid gestured to Audin and Ragna.
Take this bastard away.
If they left Rem alone, he was bound to cause a massive scene. Encrid also intended to relieve Marcus of his predicament. He had never intended to hide himself in the first place; concealing his identity had been Marcus’s scheme, not his own wish. He had gone along with it, but wasn't everything out in the open now anyway?
It was time to step forward.
In fact, since things had turned out this way, he wondered if he could bait the swordsmen under Count Molsen’s command into seeking him out later. He quite liked the strategy Krais had suggested: don't go looking for them; make them come to you.
Above all, no matter what kind of atmosphere Count Molsen exuded, he did not pose a threat to Encrid. Even before he began regressing, Encrid had lived with his life on the line. Since the repetitions started, he had truly staked his life on every single moment. When it came to sheer grit and audacity, Encrid might very well be the most formidable man on the continent.
To Encrid’s eyes, Count Molsen’s appearance looked like an opportunity.
I heard his hobby is gathering talent.
Count Molsen’s nickname was the "Talent Collector." In that case, he likely had plenty of skilled swordsmen under his command—and spearmen, martial artists, and masters of blunt weapons as well. Rumors even claimed he had knight-level figures in his service.
The man known as the "Elite-Catching Blade" who had targeted Encrid on the previous battlefield had also been under Count Molsen’s command, though Encrid had no way of knowing that. He didn't even know the dead man's nickname.
Encrid figured that once Krais spread the rumors, some competitive bastards under Count Molsen would get fired up. He hoped a few of those swordsmen might come to test him.
“Was your name Encrid?” Count Molsen spoke again.
Marcus was about to intervene, but before he could, Encrid took a step forward.
“Stand back, soldier.”
A man acting as a guard blocked Encrid’s path with his arm. It wasn't just a block; it was a strike—a rough, aggressive shove intended to provoke a fight. It was the man who had been acting as the coachman. His trained chest muscles were taut, and his eyes glared fiercely.
This is a provocation, right?
It certainly seemed so. Moreover, the opponent had struck first. Wouldn't that give him a reason to use violence in return?
Encrid didn't think twice. He might have been influenced by Rem’s aggression, and the few drinks he’d had likely played a part.
When Encrid grabbed the arm blocking him and pushed, the opponent naturally tensed and pushed back. In an instant, Encrid shoved the man’s hand with his right, pulled it back, and swept the back of the man’s heel with his left foot.
It was an off-balancing technique from the Valaf-style martial arts he had learned from Audin.
Caught off guard, the opponent fell for it. His foot flew into the air, his hips lifted, and he slammed onto his backside with a heavy thud.
Whether the Count had intended it or not, Encrid had deliberately torn through the veil of silence the noble had created. The surroundings grew even quieter. One of the soldiers let out an involuntary groan, muttering, “Oh, boy.”
“That’s going to hurt,” Encrid said softly, finding the silence uncomfortable.
The fallen man’s face flushed deep red. Glaring fiercely, he tried to scramble back up, but Encrid spoke first.
“Since it seemed you came to see me.”
He didn't even look at the man he had just knocked down. He turned his body to face the Count directly.
The Count was watching him intently. The coachman, now back on his feet, clenched his fists, debating whether to strike back. In the end, he couldn't throw a punch; his lord was watching the boy.
Encrid had displayed force first, and conversation followed. The minor commotion had naturally drawn the Count’s full attention. Since drawing attention had been his intent, Encrid looked back at the Count calmly. His attitude showed not a shred of intimidation.
It seemed almost half-mad, but the Count was busy observing Encrid in silence. Encrid did the same.
He grew his mustache quite nicely. It looked as if he had a barber specifically tend to it.
Behind them, Marcus had been about to step in but held his tongue. Thanks to Encrid’s boldness, there was no room for him to intervene.
“Are you Encrid?” the Count asked.
“Yes, I am,” Encrid replied.
Their eyes met. Encrid looked at him calmly, and the Count returned the gaze with equally steady eyes, staring into the black-haired man’s blue eyes.
Was it rude to knock down a coachman upon their first meeting? The thought only occurred to Encrid after the deed was done. He brushed it off. It wasn't as if there wasn't already resentment between them. Anyone in the know was aware that Count Molsen had secretly tried to interfere on the battlefield.
Though they couldn't openly demand to know why—those troops hadn't attacked with their crests erased for no reason—they all knew. As soon as Martai fell back, those mysterious forces had retreated and fled. Not a single one had been captured. Pursuing them would have been easy, but Krais had advised against it.
“What if we confront him? Do you think the Count will just admit to it? Nonsense! He’ll accuse us of framing him instead. Then we’ll be the ones on the defensive. It’s better to just pretend we don't know.”
The point was simple: might makes right. Anticipating this, Marcus hadn't bothered to pursue the fleeing men either.
In any case, Encrid judged that since the person he knocked down wasn't the Count’s son, but merely some guard acting as a coachman, humiliating him wouldn't be a big deal.
“Are you alright?” the Count spoke to the coachman standing awkwardly behind him, ignoring Encrid for a moment.
“Yes, Father.”
Huh? Encrid reflexively wanted to dig his ear. He felt like he had misheard.
“Lecturing my son upon your very first meeting? Your audacity is indeed formidable,” the Count said.
Encrid realized there had been a major misunderstanding. “Uh, well. Yes. It seems so.”
Silence fell once more. It felt as though the torn veil of silence had been neatly stitched back together.
“Did you know he was my son?” the Count asked, tearing through the quiet again.
“I did not.”
“Then you know now.”
Was he demanding an apology? The Count turned his body completely to face Encrid. A faint, shimmering light seemed to flicker in the Count’s eyes. It was a strange sensation—an eye that peered into his innermost thoughts. A gaze that dug deep inside rather than just looking at the surface.
Should he apologize? Encrid knew it wouldn't be difficult. What was so hard about offering a few empty words of courtesy? It wasn't as if he was being asked to cut off a finger.
And yet, his mouth refused to open. Had his arrogance grown along with his skills? No, that wasn't it. The man before him simply rubbed him the wrong way. It felt like encountering a monster on a desolate path—and an exceptionally insidious one at that.
Just as the onlookers began to read the room and a chilly air settled in—
“Hahaha! It is fine. The one who got beaten is the fool.”
The Count burst into hearty laughter, his face splitting into a broad smile. Encrid silently offered a military salute to show respect for the Count’s magnanimity.
“I said it is fine. I truly only stopped by to see your face. Indeed, the rumors were not exaggerated. Not at all.” The Count scanned Encrid’s face. “They said that aside from your skills, your face is magnificent. I suppose all the maidens in the vicinity must find it hard to sleep.”
“It seems all the local maidens suffer from insomnia,” Encrid replied with an elven-style joke.
“Haha, you are a witty fellow.”
After tossing out a few more trivial remarks, the Count offered Marcus something resembling an apology regarding the recent events.
“The hordes of monsters and demonic beasts coming up from the south were formidable. Protecting the territory is a duty entrusted to us by the King, is it not? Blocking them was no easy task. That is why I could not help. Those Martai bastards—their territory was too deeply influenced by the East. Your achievement is great.”
He acts as if he’s practically the king himself, Encrid thought. He watched as Marcus replied with his usual gentle smile.
“I shall receive commendations for my achievements from our lord, the righteous Queen of this nation.”
You are not the king, you bastard. It felt as if Marcus was saying exactly that.
“Then, until we meet again.”
Count Molsen didn't care. He withdrew as if he hadn't even heard the jab. His stay was brief, but the atmosphere he left behind lingered.
The moment he departed, Marcus spoke with a twisted smile. “Obnoxious bastard.”
It was a remark that revealed a sentiment far deeper than the usual contempt shown toward the nobles of the Border Guard.
“Are you on bad terms?” Encrid asked.
“Do you know what that bastard’s dream is?” Marcus didn't wait for an answer. “A usurper. A usurper of the throne. He’s completely out of his mind.”
Since Encrid was in no position to mock another’s dream, he didn't join in the condemnation. However...
His dream shouldn't be the reason his eyes were so strange.
Marcus didn't seem to have noticed, but those eyes were incredibly bothersome.
The party, whose mood had shifted due to Count Molsen, regained its liveliness thanks to the antics of a few soldiers, but it died down quickly like a burnt-out campfire.
The day after the party, a simple appointment ceremony was held.
“I hereby appoint Company Commander Encrid as the Training Company Commander!” Marcus shouted from the platform of the training ground.
Everyone took it in stride.
“Is he the Training Company Commander because he trains so hard?” some soldiers joked, but those with good intuition felt a sense of foreboding.
The Vengeance Platoon Leader was especially wary. “No way...”
That "no way" was the realization that they were likely about to be worked to death.
When they returned after the ceremony, Rem stood with a deeply contemplative look before suddenly clapping his hands. “It’s that bastard!”
“What is?” Encrid asked, realizing once again that Rem’s brain functioned differently from ordinary people.
“That Count bastard.”
“Yeah, that Count bastard.”
“Didn't I tell you before?”
“You talk a lot, Rem.”
“No, the reason I ended up drifting all the way here. I told you.”
Encrid searched his memory. Rem had said he beat a man to death who had been raping commoner women and committing murders. After the deed was done, it turned out the man was the son of a high noble.
“He was the father of that son back then.”
“...Count Molsen?”
“Ha, I was wondering where I’d seen him.” Rem nodded, looking relieved to have solved the mystery.
Encrid thought as he walked into his quarters. It must be a coincidence, but...
Did Count Molsen not recognize Rem? If there was a bounty or a wanted poster out for him, the Count wouldn't have just let it slide. It was impossible to tell. Count Molsen seemed like the type of man who harbored not just hundreds of sly serpents in his gut, but perhaps even a nine-headed Hydra of legend.
Above all, those eyes.
“Hmm.”
They were different from, yet resembled, the eyes of the panther staring intently at him in the quarters. Which meant he was a mage. It was a suspicion Encrid was half-certain of. And with that physique, could he perhaps be a magic swordsman?
If so...
I’d like to have a go at him.
Encrid scratched his head. Esther, the panther, watched him intently, her gaze asking why this human looked half-mad again. His eyes were burning with a familiar intensity.
“Let’s spar. A spar,” Rem said suddenly.
“Hmm?” Encrid looked at him, surprised that Rem had suggested it first.
“Why do you have that crazed look in your eyes? Let’s spar.”
And so, Encrid clashed with Rem. Bringing forth everything he had learned and practiced, he manifested it anew through his body. It was an unprecedentedly enjoyable time.
Two days later, as scheduled, all companies participated in training, except for the soldiers on duty. This included the 1st Company, the heavy armor unit. Some of the heavy armor members wore disgruntled expressions; they had already undergone harsher training than any other unit.
Encrid, standing on the platform, didn't care in the slightest.