Chapter 383: Forcing Them Back with Intimidation
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 383: Forcing Them Back with Intimidation
Encrid was unaware, but the rank of a Red Cloak Knight was etched into their very emblem.
A full knight’s crest featured three crossed swords—identical to the royal family’s—and the Sun Beast, a mythical divine creature with a mane of roaring flames. An associate knight’s emblem bore one less sword. A squire’s crest held only a single blade, its shape evolving as they completed various trials and missions.
The man currently lunging at Encrid wore an emblem with a single sword and the Sun Beast. He was a squire whose skills were already widely recognized—one who would likely ascend to the rank of associate knight after only a few more tests.
His thrust was swift and unerring, like an eagle stooping for its prey.
Encrid didn't bother analyzing his opponent’s specialties or habits. Instead, the moment their blades collided, he twisted his wrist.
T-t-t-ting!
The squire’s expression shifted instantly. The vibrations rattling through his blade felt as though they had been delivered by a giant. It was only natural; Encrid had swung his sword while enveloped in the Heart of Monstrous Strength.
Clang!
The squire’s sword was violently deflected upward. Encrid’s blade, however, never strayed from its intended trajectory. It was a straightforward thrust, aimed directly at the center of the squire’s chest plate.
Thud, screech, squelch.
Three distinct sounds merged into one. The tip of the blade punched through the armor and skewered the man’s heart.
Encrid withdrew his sword even faster than he had thrust it, stepping back exactly one pace. Even as blood erupted from his chest, the squire swung his sword in a desperate horizontal arc. The blade whistled through the empty air where Encrid had stood a heartbeat before. Bloodshot veins bulged in the squire’s eyes.
"Pffft."
Still clutching his weapon, the squire coughed up a torrent of blood and collapsed. He blinked slowly as death claimed him.
Why me?
To the falling squire, the world seemed to move in slow motion—a final trick of the mind as thought processes accelerated before the end. He denied reality. Why should he lose? Who even was this opponent? He had crossed swords with capable associate knights before and held his own. It made no sense to be defeated like this. They had only exchanged a single blow.
Then, a deeper regret took hold.
Was I on the wrong side?
He shouldn't have gotten involved. But would anything have changed if he had stayed out of it? The reward for this mission was an emblem with a second sword. Regardless of his actual skill, he would have been elevated above his peers. He had thought the scales were already tipped in favor of his benefactors. Wasn't it only natural to align oneself with the winning side?
It wasn't.
As the darkness closed in, realization arrived alongside his regret.
It is my fault.
Had he been like this when he first dreamed of becoming a knight? When his talent was first recognized and he began his ascent? Had he taken up the sword merely to side with winners and chase rewards?
No, he hadn't.
"I wish to uphold chivalry."
His old master, his seniors, and his comrades had laughed at his childish declaration.
"What a romantic fellow."
"You... yes, well. When you become a knight, we'll call you the Knight of Romance."
"What kind of title is that? That's not even funny."
"Pfft, anyway, I'm just saying—do your best."
The squire had once dreamed of the chivalry found in poems and songs. He had simply lost that dream somewhere along the way, trading it for new pursuits: power, money, and status. Everything had begun to rot the moment he started believing that honor was found in the admiring gazes of others.
He had dreamed of a change in his emblem. He had wished for one more sword to be engraved. What had he truly hoped to become?
Like a single flower withering, like a single sword snapping, the squire lay still on the cold floor.
Before him, a man who wasn't even out of breath stared ahead, his sword hanging low. A single drop of blood dripped from the steel onto the floor. The hallway was a disaster—shattered furniture, the wreckage of a splintered door, bloodstains, corpses, and broken blades.
The man stood amidst the carnage. Black hair and blue eyes.
Because he had recently been acting as a guard for various parties, a few of the men present recognized him.
"I heard he was just a half-wit from the Border Guard..." one of them muttered. He opened his mouth to say more but choked on his words as Encrid’s gaze shifted toward him.
Did he hear me? I only whispered. There's no way.
Encrid didn't care about the man's thoughts or his insults.
"Who is inside?" Encrid asked. It was a simple question, but to the remaining men, it sounded like a death knell.
He had just slain a high-level squire in a single breath. His momentum naturally radiated outward, manifesting as a crushing pressure. It wasn't the skill Intimidation, but it was functionally no different. If the recipient felt it as such, what did the label matter?
Eight men held the line in front of the door. Their commander swallowed hard. Would it work if all eight of them attacked at once?
Not a chance.
As the commander’s face turned pale and the sweat he’d worked up trying to breach the door ran cold, Encrid took a step forward. With a soft clack, his boot caught on a fragment of a broken wooden shield. He kicked it aside and kept walking. One of the soldiers blocking his path instinctively shrank away.
A few gritted their teeth, trying to hold their ground. Encrid approached them and raised his sword.
If they block, I cut.
As his will solidified, his Will followed. This was true Intimidation.
One of the soldiers broke into a cold sweat. Suddenly, he scrambled out of the way as if fleeing for his life. That was the breaking point. The line collapsed.
"Are you staying because you want to fight?" Encrid asked.
"No," the commander replied, his voice trembling.
Then what are you doing here? Encrid asked with his eyes.
"We are... retreating," the commander spat out. Staying meant dying for nothing. It was a mercy that this man wasn't already lunging forward to slaughter them.
The others followed in silence. Among them were mercenaries and soldiers sworn to Viscount Mernes. They knew the consequences of abandonment; the Viscount was ruthless with his punishments. Yet, they retreated without a word.
Encrid’s sheer presence was on another level. If they fought, they would die. That was the only certainty. His dignity was of a different caliber, and fear had hollowed out their hearts. Their will was utterly broken.
Encrid didn't even look back as they fled. He examined the barricaded door.
"Who's inside?" he asked, tapping the splintered wood with the tip of his sword.
From within, a sharp crack echoed as something whipped the ground.
"You?"
The voice was familiar. It was the whip-wielding guard.
What was his name again? Encrid’s memory was hazy—a side effect of repeating countless "todays." No matter how sharp his mind was, the sheer volume of loops made such details blur.
"Rat?" Encrid guessed.
"...Who is that?"
I thought it was something similar.
"Melon?"
"...Are you doing this on purpose?"
Matthew sighed inwardly. Why would anyone trust a man who acted like this in such a dire situation? He truly couldn't understand why his lord placed his faith in this person.
"It's Matthew."
"Ah, right. Matthew."
"What about the guys outside?"
"They left."
"...Where?"
"To wherever they needed to go, I suppose."
Encrid had no obligation to protect other nobles, nor any desire to. He didn't feel the need to kill the fleeing men, either. Marcus had asked for help, and Encrid understood why Marcus wanted Krang protected. So, he was simply doing his job.
"Are you coming out?"
"Come in."
Only then did the heavy chest of drawers blocking the door slide aside with a groan. Stepping inside, Encrid saw that the room was a shambles. Seven corpses littered the floor. Matthew stood there, bandages covering half his face, alongside another warrior.
The woman held a long trident, her eyes sharp with wariness. She wore chainmail that covered only her upper body, and her left shoulder was visibly mangled. She looked like someone who had just crawled out of a meat grinder, and she moved with a pained stiffness.
"Where is he?"
"Over here."
Encrid turned his gaze to see Krang poking his head out of a hole in the floor.
"Didn't I tell you that you had to leave, even if we died?" Matthew snapped, his tone laced with genuine anger.
"Where would I go, leaving you behind? If this is my end, I must accept it."
Krang was perfectly calm. Even now, the sheer weight of his character was evident. Seeing Encrid, Krang waved a hand.
"You're late."
"I tripped over a stone on the way," Encrid replied with a shrug. He omitted the part about the stone being orange-colored, female, and a member of the Red Cloak Knights.
Krang pulled himself out of the hole. It appeared to be an emergency passage, though Encrid wondered why it was a vertical shaft rather than stairs. A ladder must have been hidden inside, as the sound of Krang’s boots echoed against the walls.
"You mustn't," Matthew tried to protest. Just because Encrid had cleared the hallway didn't mean the building was secure.
Krang ignored him and climbed out. The woman with the trident kept watch at the door. Encrid briefly wondered who she was—it made sense that Matthew wasn't Krang's only guard.
He's not the type to just take things lying down, either.
Krang would have prepared contingencies for an assassination attempt. Encrid hadn't doubted for a second that Krang would survive, but the fact that he had sent for help meant the situation had turned truly desperate. He had needed a wildcard.
"I didn't expect you to ask for help."
"I told you we're friends. Let's just say I owe you one," Krang said, finally standing on level ground.
In truth, Krang’s measures had been on the verge of collapse due to the sheer pressure of time. If Encrid hadn't arrived, Krang had been prepared to make a final stand and die. That was why he could smile now. Not a single finger trembled.
"You wished to become the king of a nation, so why...?" Matthew’s voice trailed off, thick with frustration. Their relationship was unique; Krang was a lord who actually listened to his subordinates.
"Because I wish to become king," Krang said. The weight of his voice shifted. It grew heavier, more resonant. It felt as if the surrounding chaos had simply vanished.
As the atmosphere thickened, Krang continued.
"If I wish to become king, yet run away just to save my own skin, what could I possibly become? What can I do sitting on a throne if I cannot even protect the people I cherish? Shall I sit on the throne and do nothing but stuff my face with grapes peeled by maidservants? Shut up, Matthew. If I die here, then my luck has simply run out. I have done my best, I have prepared everything I could, and here I stand. I have no intention of retreating while losing anything more."
Encrid felt goosebumps. They were just words, but they held a staggering power. What did it take for mere speech to carry such weight?
They simply had to be backed by action. Krang had proven his resolve. He was willing to stake his life on his principles.
"I must do this to keep my promise to the Queen as well." Krang smiled at Matthew. "So stop nagging me."
His final words were light, tossed out like a joke between friends.
Only then did Encrid truly understand why Krang had called for him. It wasn't just because of the danger or the crisis.
It was to keep himself from running away.
It was a desperate struggle to avoid turning his back on his own dream. Amusingly, Encrid saw a reflection of himself in that figure—even though they were worlds apart in status. He saw himself, struggling while trapped in the cycle of "today." It was a grueling fight to move forward, even by a single inch.
Krang was living his life the same way.
A feeling stirred within Encrid—a genuine desire to help. This, he realized, was Krang’s true talent.
"Someone is coming," the female guard warned. She began dragging furniture back toward the door.
"How many?" Matthew asked.
"Just one."
Matthew gritted his teeth. "This is the worst-case scenario, isn't it?"
Krang’s tone remained cheerful. "Now is the time to test our luck."
Encrid spoke the words rising from his heart. "Then I'll just have to be your luck."
Krang turned to look at him, but Encrid didn't wait for a response. He looked at the guard.
"Don't block it, Matthew."
Matthew paused, his hands on a heavy dresser. Holding out inside was effective against a mob of soldiers, but it was meaningless against the elite. To someone with martial power comparable to Encrid’s, such clumsy obstacles were no hindrance at all.
Encrid pushed past the door and stepped into the hallway. A man stood there. To Encrid, he was a familiar face, though this was their first meeting in this timeline.
It was the pulse-severing associate knight he had encountered in a past "today."
Confronted by Encrid, the man's left eyebrow twitched.
"Did you kill Aisia before coming here?" he asked.
"I put her to sleep," Encrid replied. Using my fists and feet as a lullaby.
The man looked as if he were about to speak, but he suddenly lunged. His sword cleared its scabbard in a blur. Before the sharp ring of steel could even register, a flash of light descended from above.
It was a strike designed to sever Encrid’s pulse before the fight even began.
Because he had faced this man before, Encrid was able to react. He drew his gladius with his right hand, attempting to catch and deflect the blade with the flat of his sword.
Clang!
Encrid’s plan failed. A roaring impact shuddered through his arm, nearly snapping his wrist. The strike hadn't just been fast; it was a masterpiece of deception. The question, the footwork, the timing—everything had been a feint to hide the true lethality of the slash.
As he braced himself against the force, Encrid realized the truth.
He is stronger than Aisia.
Was he on Rem's level?
In the split second between openings, the opponent drew a second blade and thrust. At that moment, a whip made of braided demonic beast hide hissed through the air. With a sharp crack, it lashed out, interposing itself between Encrid and the lethal point.
Matthew had joined the fray.