Chapter 413: A Grand Coronation
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 413: A Grand Coronation
Perhaps it was a lingering trace of the wraith the Count had summoned at the very end, but Encrid couldn't shake the musty odor clinging to his skin.
"Hot water and a bath, please. No attendants."
As soon as Encrid returned to the royal palace, he washed, ate, and collapsed into sleep. It was no different for Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Sachsen. They slept deeply, only waking when their bodies finally demanded it.
At one point, a healer had approached to treat their wounds, but they had all refused.
"I know my own body better than anyone," Rem had said, dismissing him with a wave.
"This is the penance I must bear," Audin added, his reaction much the same.
Ragna simply waved the man off, and Sachsen acted as if he hadn't been injured in the first place. The healer muttered that he had never seen such stubborn patients before turning to leave.
As he walked away, however, the healer paused and bowed his head deeply toward Encrid.
"Thank you."
It was an unexpected expression of gratitude, delivered with profound sincerity. Encrid had not yet fully grasped the weight of what he had accomplished; his schedule had been far too exhausting for reflection.
Just because the battle was over did not mean the work was finished. Preparing for war was a monumental task, but cleaning up the aftermath was an even greater undertaking.
There was a saying: A general who fights well wins skirmishes; a general who prepares well wins battles. But the general who masters the aftermath is the one who truly wins the war.
Settling the chaos after the blood stopped flowing was that crucial.
Dealing with the remnants of the Count’s army, salvaging fallen equipment, dismantling the camps—all of it had to be done before the final march back to the royal palace. Even with the euphoria of victory, wrapping everything up in just three days was an incredible feat.
While Encrid’s battlefield command was one thing, Marcus’s performance in logistics was truly outstanding. He handled the cleanup flawlessly.
It was also made possible because Krang had refrained from giving any empty victory speeches.
“I believe everyone needs rest,” Krang had said. “Is it really important right now to listen to a speech from someone who just watched from the rear? I’d rather spend that time wrapping another bandage around a wounded soldier’s arm.”
True to his word, Krang walked among the men, making no effort to hide his identity as he tended to the wounded. Because he moved so casually, few recognized him as the prince and the future king. In truth, many of the common soldiers didn't even know what Krang looked like.
Though he possessed the charisma to rouse morale and ignite passion with a single speech, his actions showed that such things were not his priority. Krang was a man who proved his convictions through his deeds.
Only after the battlefield was cleared did Encrid and the others finally return to the capital.
As Encrid stood there, receiving the healer’s gratitude, various thoughts crossed his mind. He couldn't help but ask, “Do you know me?”
“My son went to the battlefield,” the healer said, his voice strained as he limped away. “If not for my leg, I would have gone out there myself.”
The healer didn't look back. It wasn't an expression of gratitude for saving his son.
His son was dead.
No matter what was said, the dead would not return, and the healer’s heart had been torn to pieces. Yet, perhaps there was a small mercy in it. Had the battle ended in defeat, his son’s death would have been utterly meaningless. That thought alone offered a sliver of comfort.
Everyone else was drunk on victory. The capital was filled with the ecstasy of those who had survived an impossible civil war. Rumors of an impending coronation circulated. Artisans gathered in the city center to erect a monument. A festival was on the horizon, and once the situation settled, banquets would be held day after day to distribute rewards.
Even so, there were those who had lost everything.
‘May you find peace.’
The healer departed, speaking silently to his lost son. Encrid watched his retreating back for a long moment before heading to his bed. The whisper that the man’s son was dead lingered in his ears.
Esther must have been exceptionally exhausted as well; she had transformed into a panther and refused to leave his arms.
*
After a restorative sleep, Encrid woke and began warming up his body using the Isolation Technique, just as he always did.
It would take at least ten days for the political situation to stabilize enough for the awarding of rewards. Until then, Encrid maintained his daily routine. He visited Odd-Eye to feed him a mix of meat and vegetables instead of standard fodder, and he met with Andrew and the trainees.
The five trainees had become four.
“Where is the other one?” Encrid asked.
“His leg was severed,” Andrew said flatly. “Even divine power cannot regrow a lost limb.”
The battle had been that fierce. While Encrid had been carving a path through the waves of wraiths, the other soldiers had been fighting for their lives in the trenches.
Encrid nodded. They had marched out of their own free will; it was only right to respect the consequences of their choice.
“He said he wished he were Frok,” Andrew added, his voice calm.
Neither Encrid nor Andrew had lived lives easy enough to be shaken by a single misfortune.
“Never again.” Andrew stared into the empty air, his voice detached but firm. He paused, then continued as if making a solemn vow to himself. “I will not stand by and watch my people get hurt again.”
Encrid nodded. He was also told that the trainee who lost his leg was now a candidate to become a butler. The young man didn't look particularly depressed.
“I think once I get used to it, a prosthetic leg will do just fine,” the trainee said when Encrid saw him. “I believe this is much better than dying.”
He was a resilient fellow. Encrid patted him on the shoulder.
“Thanks to you... thanks to you, I survived,” the young man whispered.
“You survived because you fought well,” Encrid replied. He meant it. The trainee had saved his own life with his own hands. Encrid also learned the boy had a fiancée—a spirited woman who didn't seem bothered by his injury.
“So what if he’s missing a leg? I’ll just support him!” she had declared. She was a formidable woman.
Krang was so busy he was nowhere to be seen, and Marcus was equally buried in work. Aisia visited a few days later, but Encrid wasn't in any condition for a serious spar. When he gently explained his state, she looked at him with a dumbfounded expression.
“...Do you have nothing else to do besides fighting?”
Encrid quickly changed the subject. “No other disturbances in the palace?”
“What could possibly happen? Krang has filled the place with his own people; there’s no one left to complain. There are a few foolish nobles, but he’ll handle them. More importantly, they’re talking about the coronation. They say it has to be the grandest affair possible, and all that other bullshit.”
The Krang Encrid knew was a broad-minded, great man. But people were bound to change. Encrid had seen it before—a mercenary who once risked his life for a friend stabbing that same comrade in the back for a single gold coin. He had seen a father throw his adopted son to monsters just to survive.
Even the worst bastards usually started as good men. They simply changed when pushed into a corner.
Would Krang change now that the crown was within reach?
“How is your body?” Aisia asked, breaking his train of thought.
“Reasonably fine. I can't risk my life, but I think a light spar would be alright.”
Resting was the logical choice, but he felt the need to move. Aisia nodded and drew a wooden sword.
“I said a light spar,” Encrid remarked. Aisia just tilted her head. That was why she had chosen wood, wasn't it?
Encrid drew a longsword he had picked up to replace the broken Silver. He had spent the last two days sharpening it.
“What about that is light?” Aisia muttered as she leveled her blade.
Rem, Ragna, Audin, Sachsen, and a man named Pel watched from the sidelines. Pel had abruptly introduced himself as soon as the battle ended and squeezed his way into their circle.
“I am Pel, the Shepherd of the Wilderness,” he had said. He had light brown hair, stood slightly taller than Krais, and possessed the physique of a master. “I watched your exploits on the battlefield.”
Everyone had stared at him with looks that said, 'And?' but Pel was thick-skinned. Shepherds were naturally a shameless bunch, but even among them, Pel was unique for his stubborn insistence on using a sword.
“Let me observe a bit,” he said confidently.
Encrid was slightly surprised to recognize him, but he nodded. He remembered the shepherd from before. Pel’s posture and aura had changed; his skills had clearly evolved.
As the spar concluded, Pel was left astonished. He had honestly wondered if anyone possessed greater talent than himself. He had sought Encrid out once before to spar, and though he had been pushed back then, he believed he had caught up.
He was wrong. Encrid’s sword was more solid and sharper than ever—to a degree that defied comparison. Above all, watching that man’s sword made Pel’s blood boil. He was naturally combative, and his hand kept hovering near his hilt.
“...When will your body be fully healed?” Pel asked.
“You’re last, kid,” Rem cut in.
“Haha, brother. You must wait your turn,” Audin added. “There is no set order when meeting the Lord, but there is an order here.”
“Go drink some more sheep’s milk first,” Ragna teased.
“Why don't you try getting past me first?” Sachsen muttered, glaring at the newcomer.
The hierarchy was clear: Rem, Audin, Ragna, Sachsen, and then Dunchabel. Even Teresa was busy committing every one of Encrid’s movements to memory.
“...Fine, let’s do that,” Pel agreed. He couldn't insist. Every person there was formidable. Even the beastman, Dunchabel, had a level of skill that was hard to gauge.
But would he lose? The thought never crossed his mind. The best food was always saved for last; he would just have to beat them all before facing Encrid. Pel believed in his own talent. He reckoned it would take him half a year at most to surpass them all.
Everyone was prone to delusions.
*
Five days later, when Encrid’s condition had significantly improved, a summons arrived from the royal palace.
“You must attend,” the Marquis of Okto said, having come in person.
“Aren't you busy? Coming all this way just to summon me?”
The Marquis was astonished that Encrid seemed completely unaware of his own standing. “Realize your own position, Encrid.”
Encrid had become someone even the Marquis could no longer treat lightly. If one had to name the hero who led the civil war to victory, everyone would say Encrid. He was the Savior of the Nation, the Demon Slayer. He was a man the King called a friend, with skills surpassing any knight in the orders.
And his companions? Every one of them was a master. Normally, such individuals would belong to a prestigious order of knights, yet they were bound together solely by their connection to this one man.
The politically astute Marquis knew instinctively: to lose Encrid was to lose them all. He was also aware that several nobles had already tried to recruit them under the table. They had all failed miserably.
“You want me to swing my axe for some gold? Do you know my nickname? Go look it up,” Rem had told one noble. By proudly calling himself the Noble Killer, he had sent a shiver down the spine of the aristocracy.
Sachsen refused to meet anyone. Audin simply smiled and said he only followed the teachings of God. Ragna gracefully ignored every summons.
“But why is no one calling for me?” Dunchabel had asked, though no one gave her an answer.
The Marquis was wise enough not to provoke them.
“The coronation will be held,” the Marquis said.
Encrid nodded. Had his friend truly changed? Would the man who once looked toward a distant horizon now be blinded by the glitter of the crown? For some reason, the healer who lost his son came to mind again.
Five days later, Encrid stood not in a palace banquet hall, but on a platform erected in the center of the capital. A small tower had been built upon it. Krang stood there with a smile.
He had so much to do—the coronation, the rewards, the aftermath of the Count’s disasters, the chimeras, the disturbances in the Demon Realm. Yet, the very first task Krang chose was this.
He had built a tower to engrave the names of the fallen soldiers. Even finding every name must have been a monumental task. There were surely nobles who disliked this ceremony, but Krang did it anyway.
“Would you speak before me?” Krang asked.
A Spell Object enchanted with a voice-amplifying spell sat at the front of the platform. Krang called for Encrid.
Encrid stepped up. He tried to choose his words, but gave up on a formal speech. He thought of the healer. Was that boy’s death meaningless? No one knew. The future was unknowable. But because he hoped it had been meaningful to the boy himself, he spoke from the heart.
“To the people,” Encrid began, catching his breath. “In memory of those who died to protect friendship, family, lovers, and the backs of their comrades.”
Among the crowd, some shed tears, while others smiled.
Krang stepped forward next. “I honor those who died in my stead.”
He began to recite the names inscribed upon the memorial.
“Bin, Loctine, Laksan...”
The list was long. At the end of it all, Krang calmly declared himself the new king.
“Upholding our righteous will and purpose, I declare myself the new king of Naurilia. I am Kudianat Landius Nauril.”
The Queen watched in silence before placing the crown upon his head.
Applause rang out, but there was no cheering. It was a somber, heavy sound. It was a memorial coronation. Krang inherited the crown while honoring the dead.
As the ceremony began, rain started to fall steadily. Krang stood there, drenched. Just as it had on the battlefield, the rain fell often in this land.
Swaaaaa.
The downpour wrapped around the shoulders of those who had lost everything, washing over the living and the dead alike.