Chapter 814: Wetting Oneself
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 814: Wetting Oneself
Dunbakel’s return was a momentous occasion, yet it did little to disrupt their daily rhythm.
Encrid returned to his grueling routine at dawn the very next day. As always, he spent the entire day training.
Balrog.
Most of his time was spent mentally revisiting his battle against the Balrog.
After finishing his dawn drills, he would sit in silence, lost in thought. He poured just as much effort into retracing the inspirations and lingering sensations of that fight as he did into moving his body.
Among those reflections, his sparring match with Dunbakel had broadened his tactical horizons by exposing him to entirely new techniques.
Lost in deep thought, Encrid paced the training ground. It was a habit born of necessity; his mind simply worked better when he was in motion.
Three-dimensionality.
Dunbakel had developed tactics that capitalized on the unique physical capabilities of beastmen. Rather than simply moving back and forth, she would circle her opponent, maintaining a distance of more than ten paces while constantly probing for an opening.
It felt less like a duel and more like a hunt.
Yet, it suited Dunbakel perfectly. Her supple, explosive musculature, her raw athletic ability, and her way of perceiving opponents through scent rather than sight—it was a style only she could pull off.
During their spar, she had turned her back, not even looking, and casually reached out with her fingertips to seize his collar. For a split second, he had nearly lost the upper hand.
This was despite the clear disparity in their overall skill. It showed just how sharp the blade Dunbakel had honed truly was.
A singular style of combat.
One couldn't call this mere swordsmanship. Dunbakel’s combat style was a method that perfectly utilized a beastman’s innate physical gifts.
Does that mean it’s impossible to mimic?
Not necessarily. A knight’s physical abilities were highly developed, so it was possible—but it wouldn't be efficient. However, there was no need to force himself to copy everything. Even without doing so, he could easily adopt the core concept of utilizing space three-dimensionally.
Encrid-style Orthodox Swordsmanship, Wave-Blocking Sword, Extinguishing the Embers, Sword of Chance, and the Will Control Method.
Dozens of thoughts swirled in his head as he organized them. Encrid thoroughly enjoyed these moments. If this wasn't fun, what was?
It wasn't just Encrid; Rem, Ragna, Sachsen, and Audin had also gained a wealth of experience. Consequently, they were all dedicating their time to training.
While the Wolf Knights immersed themselves in their drills, new guests were arriving at Border Guard one after another.
* * *
Pitch-black hair and crimson eyes were not a common sight on the continent.
A man wearing a wide-brimmed hat entered the city, looking around with curiosity. His long hair hung past his chin from beneath the brim.
"Smells nice."
His tone was cheerful, his voice clear. He sounded like a child who hadn't quite finished growing.
The gates of Border Guard were open to anyone, provided their identity was verified. There were no guards soliciting bribes during the process.
"Bribes? If you have the ability, go ahead and take them. I won't stop you. Embezzlement is a skill, too."
Krais didn't stop them, but no one even tried.
The soldiers received proper training, high-quality supplies, and a salary incomparable to the standing armies of other cities. Furthermore, if caught doing something foolish, the punishment was brutal, and there was nowhere to run.
In the beginning, several had tried to pull off clumsy, underhanded tricks. None of them remained in the standing army today. Nor could they become bandits or back-alley thugs; Krais had seized control of the city’s underworld before even establishing economic dominance. Causing trouble and hiding in the alleys had become synonymous with shouting "Come catch me!" or walking straight into a prison cell.
He used this absolute control to run the city in a fair, rational manner. Could the quality of an army be raised simply by throwing krona at it? Not a chance.
Knowing this, the man in the hat pursed his lips and whistled.
Whew.
"This city doesn't just smell nice."
Well-maintained roads, disciplined soldiers stationed at intervals, merchants joking with the guards, and children playing freely. The military city of Border Guard had quietly become the new beating heart of Naurilia.
Has it actually surpassed Nauril?
It was enough to make one wonder.
A slow carriage passed the man, kicking up a light cloud of dust. Behind the hatted man followed a plump individual. This man wore an outer coat embroidered with a yellow, circular pattern resembling a gold coin—the mark of the continent’s greatest merchant guild. He was a merchant from Rengadis.
Behind them both followed a third man, hooded, with a massive greatsword slung diagonally across his back.
"It's just the three of us, right?" the young-looking man in the black hat asked. Though he looked significantly younger than the other two, his tone was casual, as if seniority meant nothing to him. The others didn't seem to mind.
"That is what I heard. Being a minion is no easy task," the plump merchant replied, wiping sweat from his brow. He answered politely, showing no offense at the youth's tone.
"Tell me about it."
The three of them explored the city. It was an impressive place—peaceful and comfortable. There were many stalls selling delicious food, and the inns were immaculate. They had heard that long pipes had been laid throughout the city to handle waste, and indeed, the usual stench of a crowded city was absent.
"Wow, we should take the fellow who built this city with us, too," the man in the black hat marveled. Half of what he said was sincere; if things went well, it seemed like a grand idea to recruit him.
On the fourth day, they made their way toward the inner castle.
One of the guards, a man named Marco, blocked their path with the shaft of his spear.
"May I ask what your business is?"
Unlike the outer gates, the inner castle did not admit anyone without a prior appointment. It was a basic rule.
Marco had once challenged Encrid and been thoroughly beaten, after which he had quietly joined the Border Guard standing army. While satisfied with his life, he trained constantly, harboring a burning ambition to become a squire of the Mad Knights. Currently, the only official squire was Clement the Fallen.
I'm next.
That resolve defined him. But as Marco looked at the three men, his eyes met those of the warrior with the greatsword.
In an instant, goosebumps erupted over Marco’s entire body. He saw a vivid hallucination of his own head being cleanly severed.
Thud!
Marco slammed the butt of his spear against the ground and retreated reflexively. If he had stayed where he was, he felt he would have died. Even though their eyes had met for only a brief moment, cold sweat poured down his back.
This monster.
Marco was one of the most skilled members of the standing army. He occasionally sparred with Ropode, and whenever Rem was bored, she would step up to test him as well. He knew the nature of true pressure. What this man was radiating now was a pressure close to pure bloodlust.
"Hey," Marco grit his teeth, his voice thick with wariness.
He could tell by the pressure alone: he was no match for this man. If he attacked, he would die. It felt as certain as the sunrise, causing his heart to pound wildly.
Should he back down?
Before coming here, Marco had been a man who ran wild, trusting only in his own talent. But not anymore. If he backed down when it was time to show his mettle, why did he even carry a weapon? Was it because strength was the only law? Because the strong took everything?
No.
It was to fulfill his duty. His duty was to guard this post.
And, if possible, to keep the comrade standing behind me alive.
His friend’s child was due next month. Marco stared straight at the opponent, his senses honed through real combat.
Dangerous.
His intuition judged the man with the greatsword and the two in front of him to be lethal.
Thump.
Kicking the spear shaft, he brought the spearhead forward and took a stance. He braced his core against the crushing pressure and exhaled a thin, long breath.
"Not bad," the man with the greatsword remarked.
Combining that single remark with the atmosphere and tension, Marco reached a single conclusion.
He’s a knight.
If Dunbakel was a crystallization of bouncing vitality, this man was a heavy lump of iron. A red-hot lump of iron.
"Go and report that uninvited guests have arrived, Rimil," Marco said, refusing to swallow his spit.
His comrade, Rimil, did not move.
"Hey, show-off Marco," Rimil said, using Marco’s nickname. "I’m also one of Border Guard’s shields."
The official name of the standing army was the Shield of the Border. Since the city itself was a fortress, they were the shields protecting those within.
"It’s a fine sight, but we came as guests. We’d appreciate it if you could just pass the word inside," the plump merchant said, stepping forward with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, or do you need something like this here, too?"
He gestured as if flipping a gold coin.
"No, we don't," Marco replied.
"Lower that spear. My patience isn't deep enough to overlook someone showing hostility," the man with the greatsword said. His tone was flat, but his aura was suffocating.
Feeling the sweat on his forehead, Marco lowered his spearhead. He knew he couldn't win a head-on fight. Attacking now would change nothing. It was a cold, rational judgment. Of course, he had no intention of letting them in quietly—he just needed to get Rimil to safety.
Whether by coincidence or fate, Esther happened to be passing by and ran into the group.
"You," the man in the black hat said, recognizing her. "They say the mystery of fate is as grand as magic."
Esther merely glanced at him, her expression indifferent. They were clearly acquaintances.
"Well, this complicates things. Though my business isn't with you." The man in the black hat licked his lips. His tongue was unnervingly long. "Could I ask for a guide? Star Child?"
Esther nodded. She gestured for Marco and Rimil to stand down. The two guards quietly stepped back.
"Sure."
As the guests and Esther disappeared into the inner sanctum, Rimil let out a shaky breath. "I almost kicked the bucket without even seeing my kid born. Why are they so terrifying?"
"You should have backed down when I told you to," Marco grumbled, though he felt a surge of respect for his friend.
"Yeah, well, my legs turned to jelly. I couldn't move if I wanted to." Rimil brushed it off with a joke to cover his embarrassment.
Marco narrowed his eyes at the departing trio. They were no ordinary folk. But if asked whether they could surpass the order led by Encrid...
Not a chance.
Marco had seen the Wolf Knights up close. In his eyes, while those three were monsters... there were even greater monsters inside.
Take Ragna, for instance.
"It wasn't heat," he had been muttering ever since he returned, swinging his sword at every opportunity. A new rule had been established among the soldiers: never step within reach of the directionally challenged Ragna’s sword. He would suddenly swing his blade regardless of what was around him.
No one had died yet, but many had had their collars sliced. Having a blade graze your throat, thinly slicing the skin, was enough to make anyone's hair stand on end.
"Even if you get severed, I'll stitch you back together, so don't worry too much," his rumored lover, the healer Anne, had said—which was equally terrifying in its own way.
* * *
The pale-skinned man in the black hat was heading inside when a bolt of lightning suddenly descended toward his head.
Crash!
The strike was blocked by the warrior with the greatsword.
Cold sweat poured down the hatted man’s back. Several protective spells woven into his clothes flared, forming an invisible barrier. He caught his breath before speaking.
"...Is this your way of greeting?"
He was a mage, not a warrior. He hadn't let his guard down, but his head had nearly been split in two.
"Ah, there were people here."
A man with blonde hair and red eyes looked down at them. He held the posture of someone who had just completed a downward swing.
"Since you're not hurt..." Ragna began, then tried to walk past them as if they were invisible.
"They weren't kidding when they called them madmen," the warrior with the greatsword growled. He turned around, releasing a crushing wave of murderous intent. He intended to paralyze the opponent, to make their very soul shrivel in fear.
The intention failed.
The illusion of a severed neck shattered instantly, replaced by a new, far more terrifying vision.
The three uninvited guests simultaneously saw a vision of their own bodies being sliced vertically from head to toe. They were the ones who shriveled.
"Ugh!"
The legs of the Rengadis merchant gave out. He collapsed, pissing himself and wetting his trousers in sheer terror.
Ragna had torn the opponent’s pressure to shreds and overlaid it with his own. It sounded simple, but few on the continent could actually pull off such a feat.
"The blade," Ragna muttered, his gaze fixed on the empty air. He didn't seem to care about the people in front of him at all.