Dunbakel's return was remarkable, but it didn't change their daily life.
Enkrid was back at it the very next dawn, spending his time as usual. In other words, he threw himself wholly into training.
'Balrog.'
Most of it was spent retracing the journey to fight Balrog. After finishing his dawn drills, he would sit still in deep thought. Just as much as moving his body, he dedicated himself to chasing down the sparks of inspiration and lingering fragments of thought that came to him in those moments.
His sparring with Dunbakel contributed to broadening his perspective, as it had exposed him to entirely new skills and tactics.
Enkrid walked round and round the training yard, lost in thought. It had become a habit—his mind turned better when he was in motion than when standing still.
'Three-dimensionality.'
Dunbakel had developed tactics that drew upon the beastwoman's unique athletic prowess. To put it simply, she didn't just move forward and back. She circled around her opponent, slipped more than ten paces out, spun, and probed for openings.
'It wasn't a fight—it was a hunt.'
And that fit her like a perfectly tailored coat. Elastic muscles, athletic ability, and sensing opponents not with her eyes but with her nose.
It was a style only Dunbakel could pull off.
In their spar, she had snatched his collar with just a flick of her fingertips, her back turned to him, without even looking. For an instant, he nearly lost the upper hand.
That despite the vast gulf in their skill.
That was how sharp the blade Dunbakel had honed truly was.
'A combat art that had reached its singularity.'
This couldn't simply be called swordsmanship anymore. It was a martial form that perfectly embodied the beastwoman's athletic ability.
'Then does that mean I can't imitate it?'
Not necessarily. Knights were physically developed; they could. But it wouldn't be efficient.
And there was no reason to force oneself to mimic everything.
The essence—making use of space three-dimensionally—was more than enough to adopt.
Enkrid's orthodox swordsmanship, Wavebreaker, Killing the Embers, Sword of Coincidence, Will utilization techniques—
Dozens of thoughts crossed his mind, and he organized them one by one. Enkrid found this process nothing short of delightful.
If this wasn't fun, then what was?
Not only Enkrid, but Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, Audin, too, had gained much from this encounter. They, too, were spending their time in training.
While the entire Mad Order of Knights immersed themselves in discipline, new guests began arriving at the Border Guard.
A man with jet-black hair and red eyes—an appearance not often seen on the continent.
He came in wearing a wide-brimmed hat and looked around the city. His long hair spilled down beneath the hat, reaching under his chin.
"Smells good here."
His tone was cheerful, his voice clear. It sounded like a boy's voice, not fully matured.
The Border Guard's outer gate was open to all, as long as identities were checked. The guards here weren't the kind to demand bribes.
"Bribes? If you've got the skill, take them. I won't stop you. Embezzlement too—do it as far as your ability lets you."
Kraiss didn't forbid it. But no one even tried.
Proper training, quality supplies, pay that couldn't even be compared to other cities' standing armies.
And anyone caught trying something shady would face punishment so severe there was nowhere to run afterward.
In the early days, there had been plenty of fools who tried, but what became of them?
Not a single one remained in the standing army. They couldn't even turn to banditry or thuggery in alleys for survival.
Kraiss had seized the city's nights before he claimed its economy. To cause trouble and then try to hide in the backstreets was the same as shouting please arrest me or I'll just go quietly to prison.
And he had revealed all this while running the city with legitimacy and reason.
Could mere coin ever elevate the quality of an army? Not a chance.
The man knew it, and so he puckered his lips and whistled.
Fweeeet.
"It's not just a city that smells nice."
Well-paved roads, soldiers in sight everywhere, merchants joking with them, children running about.
The military city of Border Guard had become another heart of Naurillia.
'Isn't this more developed than Naurill itself?'
It almost felt that way.
A slow carriage rumbled past the man, kicking up a thin cloud of dust.
Behind him followed a heavyset man with a genial face. On his coat, golden round emblems shaped like coins were embroidered, marking him as belonging to the continent's foremost merchant guild. In other words, a merchant of Lengadis.
And trailing the two was another man, a greatsword slung diagonally across his back, hood drawn up.
"Just us three, right?"
The black-hatted youth spoke first. He looked distinctly younger than the other two, and his light tone carried an air that it was only natural for him to speak so. The other two carried on as if it were nothing unusual.
"That's what I heard. Being a lackey isn't exactly an easy job."
The round-bellied merchant mopped his sweat and replied. He didn't fuss over the other's tone. Instead, he answered with respectful courtesy.
"Exactly."
The three lingered in the city, exploring. It was a fascinating place. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Plenty of good food to eat. Inns that were clean. A sewer system that carried waste away underground, leaving hardly any stench.
"Wow, we'll have to bring along whoever designed this city."
The black-hatted man marveled, half-joking but half-serious.
If things went well, it would be good to take that person along indeed.
On the fourth day, they made their way toward the inner city.
One of the guards on duty leveled his spear across their path. The man's name was Marco.
"May I ask your business?"
Unlike the outer gate, the inner city's gate didn't open to just anyone. No one came and went without permission. That was the basic rule.
Marco had once challenged Enkrid, only to be crushed mercilessly. Since then, he had settled into the Border Guard's standing army.
He was content with his life now, yet continued to train relentlessly.
Because of that, he was desperately aiming to become a squire of the Mad Order of Knights.
At present, the only officially recognized squire was "Fallen Clemence."
'I'm next.'
That was how Marco lived.
And Marco now saw the two men and the warrior approaching. The man with the massive greatsword slung across his back met Marco's gaze.
Instantly, gooseflesh rippled over Marco's entire body. At the same time, he saw a vision of his neck being severed.
Thack!
Marco yanked his spear back and slammed its butt into the ground, stepping away. Reflex. Had he stayed put, he would have died. His body had moved under that impression.
Just a fleeting exchange of glances, and yet cold sweat ran down his back.
'This bastard.'
He was one of the standing army, among its skilled members.
He had sparred with Rophod from time to time. Sometimes even Rem stepped in.
So he knew what pressure was. What he had just felt was a killing aura.
"Hey."
Marco clenched his teeth and spoke, showing full vigilance.
He knew just from that oppressive presence—this was not someone he could oppose. If he attacked, he'd die. It felt as natural a certainty as dawn following night. His heart thundered, and cold sweat soaked him even more than before.
So should he back down?
Marco had once been a brash young man, trusting his talent. But not anymore.
If you retreat when it's time to show resolve, why carry a weapon at all?
Because strength is the only law on the continent? Because the strong seize everything?
'No.'
It was to prove himself by fulfilling the duty given to him. Right now, Marco's duty was to hold this post.
'And if possible, to keep the comrades behind me alive too.'
His friend's child was due next month. Marco fixed his gaze on the strangers, sharpening his senses honed by battle.
'Dangerous.'
His instincts judged all three—the greatsword bearer and the two before him—as dangerous opponents.
Thump.
Marco kicked the shaft of his spear, thrusting the blade forward again as he settled into stance. He spaced his feet with room to maneuver, eyes fixed ahead, tightening his abs against the crushing pressure and exhaling long, thin breaths.
"Not bad."
The man with the greatsword spoke. Taken together—the words now, the earlier pressure, the atmosphere, the weight—it all pointed to one conclusion.
'A knight.'
If Dunbakel, who had returned earlier, was the embodiment of springy vitality, then this man was like a block of iron.
'Iron heated in fire.'
That was the image that came to Marco's mind. He moved his lips instead of swallowing nervously.
"Go and report that uninvited guests have arrived, Rimil."
His comrade Rimil didn't back down at the order.
"Always putting on airs, Marco."
Rimil used Marco's nickname, then added:
"I'm one of Border Guard's shields too."
The official title of the standing army was "Shields of the Border." Since the city walls were the fortress, they were the shields protecting those inside.
"Your stance isn't bad, but we only came as guests. It'd be best if you simply carried word inside."
The round-bellied man with sagging cheeks stepped forward.
"Or… perhaps this is what you require?"
He flicked his fingers as if tossing a coin.
"No, that won't be necessary."
Marco answered.
"Then lower the spear. I don't have patience deep enough to let hostility stand unchallenged."
The greatsword bearer spoke. His tone was weighty, though his force was far from calm. Cold sweat rolled down Marco's temple as he lowered his spearpoint.
Even face-to-face, this man would not be an opponent. Nothing would change if he lashed out here. It was a cool-headed judgment.
Of course, he had no intention of letting them waltz through. At least Rimil should be sent back.
And whether by chance or design, Esther happened across the three.
"You."
The black-hatted man looked at her and greeted her as though they were acquaintances.
"They say the mystery of fate is as great as magic."
He spoke, and Esther responded not with words but with the briefest glance of acknowledgment. Utterly indifferent.
At any rate, they had met before.
"This just got complicated. You're not the one I came to see, though."
The man in the black hat licked his lips. His tongue was long, like a snake's.
"Would you show us the way, Child of the Stars?"
Esther nodded. She signaled to Marco and Rimil. The two quietly stepped back.
"So be it."
After the three uninvited guests disappeared with Esther, Rimil exhaled.
"Almost died before even seeing my kid born. Why are they so damned murderous?"
"You should've backed off when I told you to."
Marco scolded him, though inside he acknowledged Rimil. He, too, had only been trying his utmost to fulfill his duty.
"Well, my legs gave out, so that was that."
Rimil brushed it off with an awkward joke.
Marco narrowed his eyes, watching the three as they moved away.
'They weren't ordinary.'
But if one were to ask if they could surpass the Knights led by Enkrid—
'No, not that.'
Marco was one of the soldiers who had seen Enkrid and the Mad Order of Knights up close. To him, those men were monsters, yes.
'But worse monsters fill that place inside.'
Ragna alone proved it.
"It wasn't heat."
That was all he had said since returning, swinging his sword at every turn. Among the soldiers, a rule had been made: never enter the range of Ragna's blade.
Meaning, regardless of what was around him, he would suddenly swing without warning.
No one had died by his sword, but many had had their collars sliced.
And "collar" was putting it lightly. The blade grazed their flesh thin as a sheet. To experience that was to feel one's hair stand on end.
"Don't worry too much. Even if it's severed, I'll reattach it."
His lover, the healer Anne, had said that, which was absurd in its own right.
So Marco hadn't worried.