Chapter 400: Eating Meat
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 400: Eating Meat
Marcus, having secured Krang’s full support, now served as the commander-in-chief of the main army.
He knew exactly how precious the time Encrid had bought them was. It was only a single day, but in the hands of a capable leader, a day was more than enough to change the tide.
"Summon the unit commanders at once!"
It was time for tactics and strategy. Did Marcus have a natural talent for such things? Perhaps not, but that wasn't an issue. A true leader didn't need to be a master of every craft; he simply had to know how to utilize those who were.
"Scouts are to monitor enemy movements without a moment's rest! The remaining units are to recuperate. Have them eat and rest, but under no circumstances are they to disarm. Tell them to keep their blades within reach at all times!"
Marcus barked out orders without pause.
Watching him, Krang recalled the image of Encrid he had seen just moments ago. Goosebumps prickled his skin at the memory.
There had been a man standing entirely alone on the battlefield, his back turned to his allies as he faced the horizon. Krang called such a person a knight—the kind of hero bards sang of in legends. Not a mere symbol of raw power, but a paragon of honor and conviction.
One of those who raised their swords solely for what they believed in.
The Guardian of the Covenant.
Encrid was not a card Krang had prepared himself, yet Krang had placed his faith in him. He had wanted Encrid to help him, and that desire had been fulfilled. Encrid had done exactly what Krang hoped for, and more.
And yet, looking at Encrid now, Krang wasn't sure if he could ever truly bring such a man under his wing.
Can I truly claim him as a subordinate?
Greed flared within him. He wanted Encrid by his side—a primal desire that boiled up in an instant. But Krang was a pragmatist; he quickly cast the greed aside. There was a better way to handle this, and he only needed to follow it.
I don't need to own him.
What about remaining friends? That wasn't a bad alternative. And so, they were friends.
Right on cue, the hero returned.
"Enki."
Krang was the first to welcome him. Marcus also turned his gaze toward the warrior.
Though Encrid had "only" slain a few enemy soldiers and fought to what appeared to be a draw against the enemy commander, the sheer martial prowess he had displayed had left a permanent mark on everyone present. More importantly, his lone stand had ignited the army's morale.
Inside the command tent, where the maps and battle plans were laid out, Krang raised a hand in greeting. Encrid gave a casual nod in return.
No matter how much they called each other friends, Encrid knew better than to address Krang too familiarly in a formal setting. He possessed the tact to adapt to the situation. Of course, even if he had called Krang by his name right then and there, no one would have dared to object.
He had tact, but he hadn't yet fully grasped the staggering weight of what he had accomplished. Krang saw that humility as one of Encrid’s most defining traits.
Soon, the commanders filed into the tent one by one.
"Please, place me at the vanguard!" one of them shouted.
Baron Rudin was a man who had always dreamed of joining a prestigious order of knights. His blood was boiling. He had witnessed a single man stand against a disciplined army of thousands; if his heart didn't race after seeing that, he wouldn't be human.
"Restrain yourself," Marcus said, cutting through the Baron's fervor.
Aside from strategy, Marcus knew exactly what needed to be done. He intended to tilt the scales of the war with a single, decisive engagement. To achieve that, they had to employ every resource they had prepared.
"We don't know what other cards the Count might be hiding. But the fact remains: we must fight. We will band together and wage a battle of endurance."
Marcus established the overarching strategy, and the tacticians began filling in the gaps. The core of their plan revolved around Encrid’s Mad Company, yet no one dared tell them how to move.
A brilliant strategist is one who keeps every soldier moving in harmony. They ensure every man understands his duty and carries it out. However, there are those who require no such instructions—those who operate outside the standard boundaries of military doctrine and find their own path to victory.
Encrid was one of them.
That was why Marcus said nothing to him. No orders were necessary. Even as he assigned positions to every other unit, he bypassed Encrid entirely.
In terms of raw numbers, Encrid and his subordinates were only a squad-sized force, but no one in that tent viewed them as such. They had seen the truth with their own eyes. His skill was the real deal, and the title of the Hero of the Border Guard was no empty boast.
As the meeting reached its final stage, Marcus looked at Encrid.
"The Mad Company will move of their own accord, I assume?"
Marcus needed confirmation. He wanted to hear the answer. Would they become a single sword to strike down the enemy for their lord? Or would they step outside the lines, find their own place, and fight their own way?
"Yes, we will," Encrid replied.
The answer was simple, but it brought Marcus a wave of relief.
Nodding, Encrid left the command center and returned to his assigned tent. It was a fairly large space, and right in front of it, Rem had already built a campfire and was preparing a meal.
"Feels like we're in for a rough time starting tomorrow."
The barbarian warrior spoke with the blunt honesty of his instincts. He was right. It would be brutal, and it would be dangerous.
"Are you dying of anticipation?" Encrid asked.
"How'd you know?"
"It's written all over your face."
Encrid sat on a flat stone chair of a comfortable height that Rem had fashioned. The man was remarkably resourceful; Encrid wondered where he kept finding the materials for these things.
"Where's my chair?" Ragna asked, stepping out of the tent.
Rem gave him a look that clearly told him to get lost. "Did you leave one with me?"
"Are you taking your anger out on me just because you got beaten up and sprained your ankle?" Ragna teased.
He was still mocking Rem for the injury he’d sustained while capturing the "Immortal Madman" a while back. Ragna was relentless. Rem ignored him, so Ragna eventually dragged over a similar stone block from the shadows and sat down.
Sachsen was cleverer. He had carved a piece of wood into a functional chair. Encrid wondered why they went to such lengths when they could have just asked the quartermaster for folding chairs.
Dunchabel simply sat on the bare ground. She looked the most comfortable of them all.
Esther transformed into a panther and snuggled into Encrid’s lap. Encrid watched Rem as he wiped his hands with a wet towel.
Rem had brought back some remarkably fresh meat, looking as though he had held an axe to the quartermaster’s throat to secure it. It was likely from a hunt on their way to the camp. Raw meat was a luxury ordinary soldiers rarely saw. Rem scored the flesh with a small knife, rubbed salt into the cuts, and wrapped it in a clean cotton cloth.
As Encrid stared, Rem explained, "Doing this draws out the excess blood and tenderizes the meat."
"Sounds delicious," Encrid replied.
Rem glanced around. He saw that Aisia had slipped into the circle before anyone had noticed. She was the only one who had actually managed to get a proper folding chair from the quartermaster.
"What's this? What are you making?" Aisia asked, as friendly as ever. Her social butterfly personality hadn't changed a bit, despite the fact that it had led to her being betrayed in the past.
What was the name of that Pulse-Severing Squire who betrayed her? Encrid tried to remember but gave up. The name was gone.
"I'm not giving any to the cocky bastards," Rem muttered. He said it, but everyone knew he would share. He wasn't as stingy as he pretended to be.
Ragna thought for a moment, then smirked. "If you give me some, I'll forget about the 'incident.'"
He meant he would stop teasing Rem about his leg. Ragna had a picky palate and knew that Rem’s cooking was worth the silence.
"I'll let you off the hook this once, you bastard," Rem replied.
Encrid watched them in silence. As Rem rubbed salt into the meat, Sachsen silently tossed him a small pouch. It was a silent bribe for a larger portion.
Catching it with a snap, Rem pursed his lips. "Not bad."
It was high praise coming from him. Sachsen ignored it completely. Inside the pouch were rare spices. As Rem sprinkled them over the meat, a rich, complex aroma wafted through the air.
"If you put poison in this, you're dead," Rem joked.
Sachsen ignored him again and sat down next to Encrid. Dunchabel quietly moved to Rem’s side to help with the prep.
"Don't use your fingernails. Did you wash your hands?" Rem barked.
"I'll use a knife," Dunchabel replied, unusually docile.
The meat was scored, salted, and spiced. Once the cotton cloth was soaked through, Rem peeled it off and patted the meat dry with a fresh cloth. He arranged stones around the campfire to support a cast-iron pan he had scavenged from somewhere.
Rem poured flaxseed oil into the pan. "This is precious stuff," he remarked.
Encrid nodded. In this circle, Rem’s word was law.
Once the pan was screaming hot, the oil shimmered, and a rich aroma filled the air. Rem placed the meat onto the iron.
Sizzzzzzzle!
A savory scent rose with the smoke. The smell of searing beef and hot oil struck their senses with the force of a physical blow. Mouths began to water instantly.
"Mmm."
Encrid let out a soft groan of admiration. Rem stared intently at the pan, more serious than he ever was in battle. Yet, his hands moved with effortless grace. He flipped the meat, revealing a deep, crusty brown sear.
Sizzzzle.
He seared the other side amidst plumes of white smoke, then used a metal rod to skewer the slabs and sear the edges. Once it was cooked to perfection, he transferred the meat to a clean wooden board.
Dunchabel’s hand instinctively reached out.
"Touch it and you die. Wait," Rem said without looking up.
"Ah, why?"
"Because it tastes better if you let it rest."
It was a rare moment of logic and gentle persuasion from the barbarian. Dunchabel conceded.
After resting the meat, Rem began slicing. The inside was a perfect, juicy red, contrasted against the charred brown exterior.
"I chose a cut with high fat content. It's prime beef."
"Where did you get it?"
"The quartermaster had some fresh stock. Looks like they traded with a group of nomads nearby."
He carved the meat into bite-sized pieces. "Eat," Rem commanded, crossing his arms.
Encrid unleashed his Moment's Will, adding Single-Point Focus to the movement. With a swift stab, his wooden skewer snatched up a thick, glistening piece of meat. He popped it into his mouth.
Chomp.
Juices exploded. The savory richness of the beef rushed through his nose and straight to his brain. If the aroma had teased his senses, the taste was a direct assault. Every hair on his body stood on end.
This was it. This was what food was supposed to be. The tender meat melted between his teeth and slid down his throat.
What was that? Was it a dream? When did I even swallow?
Encrid moved his skewer again.
"There's plenty," Rem said.
They ate to their hearts' content. Every one of them was a heavy eater, a necessity for the energy they expended in combat. They ate until they were patting their stomachs in satisfaction. Even Sachsen silently chewed and swallowed piece after piece without pause.
It was an unexpected, glorious feast.
"Phew. Now that we've eaten well, let's have some real fun tomorrow morning," Rem said, patting his belly.
"My thoughts exactly," Encrid agreed.
"That was a wonderful meal. Encrid, I enjoyed watching your fight today," Aisia said, taking her leave first.
The night was quiet. With no duties left, everyone spent their time as they pleased. Ragna’s mind was empty of worry. Rem was filled with the thrill of the coming fight.
Sachsen stepped outside for a walk, using the cool night air as an excuse. As he walked, a shadow rose from the darkness. It was his lover, who also served as his contact for the guild.
"Do you really have to go this far?" she asked abruptly. She could not comprehend his choices.
"This is the last time," Sachsen replied.
Her question was why he was risking his life on a battlefield under Encrid’s command. Sachsen’s answer meant that this battle would be his final gift to the world he was leaving behind.
His lover stared at him. She didn't know the reason, nor could she guess it, but she felt a cold dread—a premonition that Sachsen would not return.
Do you remember my father's words?
The words of Sachsen's master, her deceased father, echoed in her mind.
"Find where you belong."
It had been both a command and a dying wish. Sachsen had never seemed to take those words to heart, but she had.
Regardless, there was no way to know the future tonight.
While Sachsen was out, Dunchabel, uncharacteristically restless, stepped out of the tent. She sat on the stone chair Rem had used and stared blankly at the sky.
It was a moonlit night—perfect for a raid—yet the enemy remained silent. Dunchabel shivered, but not from the cold. Her entire life had been a desperate struggle for survival. She had survived by running, by hiding, by doing whatever it took.
Her instincts were screaming at her. She felt a dizzying sense of vertigo, as if she were standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff.
Yet, she didn't want to run.
What should she do?
Desperate struggle.
Had she not already learned the answer from the man beside her? She would do as Encrid did.
The moonlight shifted. Clouds gathered, masking the moon and plunging the camp into darkness. The flames of the nearby torch stands flickered violently as a sudden gust of wind swept over her.
I only need to push forward. I will struggle until the end.
Dunchabel steeled her heart, though the trembling in her limbs did not easily subside.
Inside the tent, Esther remained curled in Encrid’s lap. She opened her eyes while the others slept.
A surge of mana.
She felt the distinct flow of a spell—a form of magic she had never seen before, something she couldn't yet define.
She lifted her gaze to the sleeping Encrid. His breathing was steady and quiet. He looked as though he were sleeping soundly, without a single care in the world, oblivious to the invisible threads of fate tightening around them.