Chapter 361

“Could they be trying to use poison or some other trick?”

As soon as dawn broke the next morning, Enkrid posed the question.

Jaxon, hearing it, shook his head.

He was back to his usual self now.

Expressionless, indifferent, and composed.

However, a faint murderous intent lingered in his tone.

“They won’t pull the same stunt again.”

Jaxon’s voice, as he uttered those words, was like a shard of ice plucked from a glacier—cold and sharp. There was a quiet scorn in it, directed at those who had acted in his absence.

Of course, the cold, murderous smile vanished as soon as it appeared.

He returned to his usual indifferent, haughty demeanor, the kind that wouldn’t flinch even if pricked by a needle.

“So you’ll make sure of it?”

Enkrid asked. Jaxon gave a detached nod.

That was enough.

Just as he said, the entire day passed without incident. The ones who had stepped forward to issue warnings never showed up again.

Would they really come back after just one day?

No, even after two or three days, they likely wouldn’t dare.

They had only come when he was alone—there was no reason for them to show up when he was surrounded by others.

Enkrid spent another day in training.

With no distractions, he focused entirely on his drills, putting both Andrew and the five trainees through their paces.

“Spare me.”

One of the trainees unconsciously muttered.

“Yes, today’s single stroke will be what saves you tomorrow.”

Enkrid replied earnestly to the trainee’s desperate plea, earning applause from Dunbakel.

“A fine saying.”

“It’s not a saying, you idiot beastkin. It’s a declaration that he’s not going to listen to that kind of whining.”

Rem interjected with a sneer.

Their conversation barely reached Enkrid’s ears.

It certainly didn’t reach the trainees. And Rem likely kept his voice low on purpose, understanding why Enkrid responded the way he did.

If they were already begging for mercy at this level…

‘They can handle more.’

Enkrid wanted them to pour every ounce of their energy into the blade—to push themselves beyond their limits. It wasn’t just about honing their skills but ensuring they wouldn’t die needlessly.

To him, Gardner’s forces amounted to no more than seven men.

Andrew, Mack, and the five trainees.

Andrew was somewhat useful, but…

‘Being "somewhat useful" in this situation is meaningless.’

If trouble broke out, they would all just die.

And while Enkrid wasn’t the type to get sentimental, he wasn’t interested in watching Andrew die right in front of him.

That said, he couldn’t afford to follow them around like a bodyguard either.

The best option was for them to learn how to protect themselves.

That was the true purpose of their training, and it was only fitting that it was particularly brutal.

At times like these, it was easier to feign incomprehension rather than argue or reprimand them.

People will attempt to negotiate or resist when they think they can communicate.

But when faced with something immovable, they stop trying altogether.

They simply focus on what’s in front of them.

That was what Enkrid wanted.

For them to become completely absorbed in their task—to struggle and push forward with every fiber of their being.

Having clawed his way up from the bottom himself, he knew exactly what kind of mindset they needed.

“Urgh…”

One of the trainees groaned in despair.

Enkrid was pleased.

Ragna watched with a nod.

He always gave everything his all.

It was just as he expected from his commander.

It was satisfying.

Seeing this only reignited his own resolve.

‘The sword.’

Ragna soon lost himself in his own thoughts.

Jaxon, watching the same scene, remained silent.

In two days, the only words he had spoken were his initial declaration that the enemy wouldn’t repeat their actions.

No one else attempted to speak with him either.

Even Andrew found Jaxon difficult to approach.

Mack didn’t even consider him an option.

The five trainees were too busy trying to survive.

Neither Rem nor Ragna saw any reason to provoke him, both preoccupied with their own tasks.

Whenever Enkrid stepped away, Rem would take his place.

“If you manage to land a single hit on me, you get a break.”

He showed the five trainees a new kind of hell, thoroughly enjoying himself in the process.

Meanwhile, Ragna practiced his swordplay in solitude, occasionally murmuring to himself about speed and weight, clearly refining his technique.

Amidst all this, Jaxon had time to think.

At first, his thoughts were on his own affairs.

‘A game of cat and mouse?’

He had narrowed down his targets for revenge based on the evidence so far.

But just because he had identified them didn’t mean he could find them.

That would be the hard part. He needed more information. He had to dig deeper.

After those pragmatic considerations came the more fundamental questions.

‘Is this the right path?’

The road he had chosen was not one of "help."

What was the right path? What was the answer? Why had he dedicated his entire life to revenge?

If revenge was the goal, was this really the way to go about it?

“Strike.”

Enkrid’s words echoed in his mind.

Jaxon’s gaze fell upon Enkrid, whose arm was wrapped in bandages.

The days were growing warmer, and his sleeves were shortening with the season.

The wound hadn’t been treated properly—it had simply been left alone. Yet it had neither festered nor worsened.

It was the mark of Jaxon’s stiletto.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

“Why are you hesitating? Find the reason first. Think about the why.”

A mentor had once told him that.

Jaxon followed that advice.

The reason for hesitation lay in the heart. It was because his heart lacked direction.

If one didn’t know, they were led astray. If they knew, they wouldn’t be.

Finding the reason didn’t mean he had to have an answer.

There were many paths.

Jaxon chose one.

Instead of regaining control over his emotions, he let them be.

Instead of hesitating with should I do this?, he simply did.

He acted. He moved. He took steps toward the result he sought.

It was Enkrid’s way of thinking. He had learned it by watching him.

For the first time, he saw just how remarkable the man before him truly was.

‘He doesn’t give up just because he lacks talent.’

Instead of wallowing in doubt, he finds solutions.

If his mind can’t figure it out, he uses his body.

If his body can’t manage, he forces his mind to adapt. He does whatever it takes. He fights, tooth and nail.

“You’ll never amount to anything with that level of skill.”

Criticism and ridicule didn’t shake him. He simply moved forward.

Jaxon’s tangled thoughts unraveled.

What had been knotted now lay straight.

In short, he decided to follow his instincts.

Later, Rem, feeling bored, intensified his torment of the trainees.

Dunbakel, after receiving two curved swords from Enkrid, spent hours adapting to them.

Eventually, he transformed into his beastkin form and challenged Ragna to a duel—only to get thoroughly beaten.

Ragna, when not swinging his sword, would either lounge in the training yard or lie on the grassy field nearby.

Unless someone picked a fight, he seemed quite at ease.

Jaxon sometimes ventured outside with Enkrid, though he often went alone.

When they did leave together, it was usually for a social gathering.

Enkrid would take Andrew along as his escort.

Occasionally, he even ran into familiar faces. The capital was crowded, after all—everyone was vying for a seat at the table.

“You.”

“It’s been a while.”

The man’s reaction was immediate, and Enkrid spoke next.

It was the instructor who had once taught him swordsmanship during his time in the capital.

A man of questionable character.

‘And now he’s a noble’s bodyguard, huh?’

The way he dressed, the weapons he carried, the company he kept—everything about him pointed to that conclusion.

“Wait… You’re that Enkrid?”

The Former Bullshit Instructor Spoke.

Back then, he had judged Enkrid’s skills to be fairly decent.

But how about now?

Enkrid thought about it for a moment before nodding.

“What utter nonsense.”

The former instructor muttered under his breath and exchanged whispers with his companions.

From what Enkrid could catch, they were calling him a fraud.

He ignored them.

Beside him, Andrew’s brow furrowed.

“Are we just letting this go?”

Andrew looked ready to step in himself.

“Let it go.”

Enkrid glanced at them and decided there was no reason to pick a fight first.

The former instructor grinned at him—a smirk so unpleasant it might as well have smelled like rotting fish.

“Oh, yeah. See you around.”

Snickering among themselves, the former instructor and his group walked away.

He wasn’t even their leader.

Was there anyone among them worth paying attention to?

Didn’t seem like it.

Enkrid dismissed them. It was just another passing event.

It wasn’t until a few more parties had come and gone that he finally met Crang.

Crang had a hard time even leaving the royal palace.

“They’re all ready to draw their swords at any moment.”

“The Count of Molsen?”

Enkrid didn’t know the inner workings of the palace. He had simply named the most likely suspect.

But he was wrong.

Crang gave a slight smile before answering.

“No, the one holding a blade to our throats isn’t some borderland noble. It’s someone within the palace itself.”

Enkrid hadn’t asked, but Crang continued anyway.

“It’s a man named Viscount Mernes.”

From what Enkrid gathered, Mernes had consolidated various palace factions into a single powerful force.

He was in direct competition with Viscount Bentra, meaning his ambitions were separate from Count Molsen’s.

“A troublesome man. He’s one of the Five Fingers.”

As Crang spoke, he placed his palm on the bench and stretched his back, gazing at the sky.

For some reason, despite the weight of his words, he looked entirely at ease.

The Five Fingers that upheld the palace referred to five noble families.

Marcus Baisar, the Thumb.

The Lachhon family, which had long been part of the military, was the Index Finger.

The Count of Molsen, ruler of the borderlands, was the Middle Finger.

The Marquis of Octo, in charge of the kingdom’s treasury, was the Ring Finger.

The Pinky Finger was a family tasked with guarding the royal palace—its name unknown.

And currently, none of these five noble houses supported the Queen.

Each was busy securing their own interests.

Crang didn’t explain all of this. He didn’t need to.

He shot a glance at Enkrid. That wasn’t what he was here for.

Then what was he curious about?

At first, the rumors had been about Andrew’s unexpected presence at the party, given that he hadn’t been formally invited.

But soon, the gossip had shifted to his escort.

The Hero of the Border Guard.

A man whose reputation had been blown out of proportion.

Someone from Enkrid’s past had been spreading rumors.

That his real skills were pathetic. That he owed everything to his subordinates propping him up, living off an undeserved reputation.

‘So they won’t believe it unless they see it themselves?’

Was it arrogance? Conceit?

Or were they just trying to protect the reputation they had built for themselves?

‘No, it’s none of that.’

Crang simply considered them all idiots.

If they doubted his reputation, they could have just tested him under the guise of friendship.

If that was too much, they could have simply observed him for now.

But instead, a few foolish and ignorant nobles were too busy tearing Enkrid down.

‘Are they just lacking intelligence?’

How had men like these become palace officials?

One of the loudest among them was the Palace Security Officer.

The man who oversaw every captain in the royal guard and commanded the palace’s security forces.

‘Should I be happy about this?’

Should he be pleased that a suspected enemy was an idiot?

Or should he lament the fact that the palace he would one day have to govern was filled with fools?

Or should he blame the Queen for allowing such a situation?

Or perhaps, he should feel sympathy for her.

After all, none of this was entirely her doing.

Of course, Enkrid’s presence at the party wasn’t just about his abilities.

“I’d like to see him up close.”

“They say he’s incredibly handsome.”

“A feast for the eyes, they say.”

The noblewomen’s curiosity.

The two men who had turned heads from the entrance of the party hall all the way inside.

Naturally, those two were Enkrid and Jaxon.

No wonder the jealous noblemen were busy whispering insults behind his back.

Few things fueled resentment more than jealousy.

Some nobles outright wanted Enkrid dead.

Including the Palace Security Officer.

If Enkrid so much as drew his sword in the city, the guards would likely swarm him in an instant.

Crang mulled this over before speaking again.

“Viscount Mernes is Marcus Baisar’s son-in-law. He also hails from the Lachhon family.”

He was backed by the most powerful patron in the palace and had even stationed private troops within the capital.

He had rapidly expanded his influence since entering the capital, bringing many smaller factions under his control.

At this point, he was twice as dangerous as Count Molsen.

“They say he’s gathered an entire battalion’s worth of soldiers outside the city. So, what is it that you really want to ask?”

Crang trailed off and finally turned the question back on Enkrid.

There had to be a reason for his visit.

Enkrid had plenty to ask, but in the end, everything boiled down to one question.

One question that would answer many others.

So Enkrid asked about those whom he had expected—those who should have been there.

“Where are all the knights?”

If even a single knight remained in the palace…

If they were still standing at the Queen’s side…

Would some Viscount Mernes or whatever his name was be running rampant like this?

An assassin’s group had openly delivered a warning in broad daylight.

The cries of beasts echoed through the night, and new ghost stories were spreading through the capital every day.

If the knights were still around—if the Order of Knights was still active—this should have been impossible.

It was the one fundamental question that tied all these events together.