Chapter 530: Anxiety and Conviction

Barnas Hurrier, despite how he looked, knew how to calculate.

He might’ve looked like a slobbering mutt charging headlong into battle, and as a wolf beastkin, the comparison was apt.

But inside, he wasn’t raising a wolf—he was harboring a nest of scheming snakes.

He saw the two knights who had appeared as his enemies, and in an instant, finished his calculations.

‘This is a win.’

The reason?

He already had a rough grasp of how many troops had entered the Pen-Hanil mountain range from Naurillia.

And at this point, it didn’t matter if every last one of them turned out to be a knight.

Figuring out their numbers wasn’t even hard.

He had a fairy unit well-acquainted with the terrain.

He’d used them to execute a lure strategy.

More than that, he even sent the fairy squad out front to observe the enemy’s response.

If the enemy had all rushed in after taking the bait, he would’ve assumed they lacked knight power and were led by a coward.

But these ones?

They’d split up, as if they’d read his intentions.

That alone proved that two knights had arrived here.

Still, Barnas had to face two knights.

So why was he so sure of victory?

Even with fifty slabs of armored meat shields, it was still two against one—wasn’t that a numbers disadvantage?

Only if you understood one thing and missed the rest.

Beyond the efforts of Abnaier and Barnas Hurrier, they’d sent bait through every possible diplomatic channel, including the Ekkinse family of civil administration.

They’d been running around like dogs, doing everything to ensure that a certain knight from Naurillia’s Red Cloak Order wouldn’t show up.

‘Not all knights are the same.’

Those who understand only a little tend to think all knights are the same.

But that’s nonsense.

Just like not all soldiers are the same, not all knights are equal either.

To lesser men, they might look similar.

But once you reach the level of a true knight, you start seeing the gaps.

This is why fake knights churned out by Count Molsen could never surpass the real thing.

Reaction time, expanded awareness, the way they used power—everything was on a different plane.

For that reason, Barnas only cared that Cypress didn’t show up.

So long as that guy wasn’t here, there was no one who could stop him.

Even if one more person showed up among the pair in front of him, it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Even if someone on their level joined in, Barnas would still have bet on victory.

Because not all knights are created equal.

In the end, only two had shown up.

If there were two knights here, he could already see the shape of the rest of the battlefield.

‘So this is how the board’s laid out, huh?’

Three routes in total.

Three battlefields.

The layout was Abnaier’s idea, and Barnas himself had helped shape it.

Why split the battlefield into three?

That was another question entirely.

Yes, it served to divide the enemy.

But more importantly, it was simply a better way for their side to fight.

‘Knights aren’t exactly team players.’

Barnas knew this from experience.

Knights didn’t get stronger together—they just got in each other’s way.

If the other side was trying to overwhelm with numbers, maybe grouping knights together would work.

But this side had the superior elites.

Joining forces wouldn’t multiply their power.

‘Well, unless they’d been syncing their tactics for years.’

Like twin knights or something.

Other than that, they were all the same—overflowing with talent, elevated to knighthood, yet unwilling to waste time learning combo techniques.

One of the maniacs under him—his poetic junior—had even said he aimed to catch up to Barnas within ten years.

And was that wrong?

No.

Barnas believed his decisions were sound.

He’d intentionally pushed those with potential into rivalries, to endlessly stimulate their ambition.

Of course, he remained seated above them all—the immovable peak.

That’s how he raised his juniors.

Given the nature of this situation, it was obviously better to fight separately.

Especially with Abnaier’s plan to deploy troops specifically to drain the enemy’s strength.

They’d scrapped a full frontal war and poured power into this location instead.

As for the other battlefields?

They’d be fine.

‘That guy’s not going to lose.’

Among his men was one whose specialty was dueling.

Aside from Barnas himself, he was the most trustworthy blade in the group.

Barnas’s mind kept spinning the numbers.

What if the enemy broke from one of the three battlefields, escaped, or moved off-course?

‘Please, God, let that happen.’

From the start, it only took taking the rear in one of the three to end it.

Even if the enemy grouped together into a larger force, it wouldn’t matter.

Even if they didn’t regroup here.

Either way, the enemy wouldn’t ignore any of the three routes.

He wouldn’t, if he were them.

Leave one open, and the rear gets exposed.

They might’ve scrapped a direct war, but if the rear is hit, that’s a whole different story.

‘What kind of strategist takes the enemy’s words at face value?’

So that made one battlefield his.

One had a flashy subordinate and a freshly trained recruit.

The last one had a knight who’d bound himself with some idiotic oath, but was still a duelist Barnas wouldn’t bet against—and General Frokk was stationed there, too.

That battlefield would be the trickiest.

Frokk, after all, was one of the rare ones who could sync up with knights.

“This is gonna be fun,”

Barnas muttered just before the fighting started.

***

“There’ll be a lot of knights. That’s my prediction. It could be five.”

“Is it right to be greedy in that kind of fight?”

“And even if luck’s on our side and the numbers match, what about the variables we can’t control?”

Kraiss struck the ground with his voice, stern and certain.

This was just before Enkrid had said he wanted to be greedy.

And Kraiss’s point was valid.

It was a worst-case scenario.

He emphasized especially the matter of numbers.

Here’s an example.

Can you quantify a knight’s power with numbers?

Say a knight’s strength is measured at ten.

Does that mean they all operate at the same level of ten?

Of course not.

Whether it’s giants or humans, everyone’s got two hands and two feet—but the limits of what you can do with them vary drastically.

Oara was an incredible, radiant knight.

But even so, the strongest in Naurillia was still Cypress.

Not all knights are equal.

Kraiss knew that with his wise, world-weary brain.

Enkrid understood it by living through it.

Through Rem and Ragna.

Through Shinar.

Through facing the Eastern King and the monsters of the Gray Forest.

Through pushing past his limits again and again with Acker.

That’s why...

No battle could ever guarantee victory.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Usually, that would be the case.

“I see.”

And yet, that was all Enkrid said.

Even though he’d experienced it himself.

That was why Kraiss was filled with unease.

Abnaier likely believed the battlefield had been set by mutual agreement between him and his opponent.

But that wasn’t true.

Kraiss was the one who’d laid the board.

He had funneled the enemies’ path into a single narrow route, then let them enjoy the illusion of choice.

Use the path well. ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) We’ll meet like mortal enemies on a rope bridge.

You know the drill, right? You’re only bringing an elite few? What, three knights? Then just bring the three.

We’re kind of struggling on this end, so we might have to hold you off with sheer numbers.

Had Kraiss said that—

Abnaier’s response would’ve been,

“Sure. Let’s do that. See you then.”

That’s how plain his agreement would’ve sounded.

Why did Kraiss set things up like this?

Why else?

Because this was the only way to let the enemy do exactly what they wanted.

They say a true sage can predict events on the other side of the continent from where they sit.

But Kraiss never thought of himself as a sage.

He didn’t try to foresee what was happening on the far side of the continent.

“What would be the point of predicting crap like that?”

That’s what he’d say.

He didn’t know how things were playing out over there.

But here—on the board he had crafted—he could predict what would happen.

He knew how the battlefield would unfold.

“We need to bleed a little too.”

Can you trust that the enemy strategist will stick to the supposed agreement?

Was there ever an agreement in the first place?

It wasn’t even a signed treaty—just an understanding sealed with silent cues.

So there was no real obligation to uphold it.

That’s why Kraiss believed sacrifice had to be demanded.

“Rejected.”

But his suggestion was rejected.

The moment he saw the look in the commander’s eyes, he knew nothing he said would be heard.

The enemy wouldn’t just walk in like good little boys.

They were bound to pull something.

But if the commander said to be greedy—

Then greedy it was.

He wasn’t going to change his mind.

So that was the end of it.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that Kraiss had laid the board.

And so, as he let out deep breaths—ten at a time—his heart continued to ache with anxiety.

What if it all unravels and everyone dies?

‘I’m gonna die young at this rate.’

If Kraiss had laid the board, Enkrid was the piece—the knight being played.

The final decisions were his, but the fundamental setup hadn’t changed.

Abnaier knew that too.

Two strategists watched the war unfold from different places, with different hearts.

One, shrouded in anxiety.

The other, gripped by unwavering belief in victory.

No one knew if the pieces they had sent were knights, queens, bishops—or just pawns.

Only the outcome would determine which path had been right.

***

While Barnas was calculating and Kraiss was nervously tapping his legs, naturally, encounters were happening on other battlefields.

“Why do people hate one another?”

Rem heard the punk standing in front of him and slowly turned his head, scanning the area.

There’s a lot.

From the thick brush, hostile intent pricked at his skin.

It was... moderately ominous.

Not the kind of intent that’d leave a scratch, though.

‘Not nearly as scary as an angry Ayul.’

The one blocking the path was a knight of Azpen.

He kept speaking with his eyes downcast, looking like some melancholic poet or brooding beast with gray hair.

Low and calm, deep-toned voice.

Maybe that’s what he was going for.

He tilted his chin up at an angle, gazing vaguely toward the sky.

Rem, watching him, thought,

Where the hell is this idiot even looking? Isn’t it bright up there?

“That’s probably a trial the world has given us. We must overcome it.”

Rem rested his hand on his axe handle and cocked a hip.

He felt like yawning, but he wasn’t sleepy.

He’d run hard after Enkrid’s orders, only to find these guys.

To a stranger, it probably didn’t look like either side wanted to fight.

“What’s with the ones hiding in the back?”

Rem asked casually, still slouching.

“Monterre’s Swamp.”

The answer came from behind.

There were two in front of Rem.

The one in the back had ruby-red eyes.

Not normal human eyes.

They were slitted vertically like a beast’s, and the rest of the man exuded animalistic savagery.

Plus, he reeked of sorcery.

That confirmed something Rem had already suspected—Azpen had some bastard messing with sorcery.

It didn’t seem to come from the West, though.

This was a different lineage.

Ever since they’d used that massacre fog in the last battle, he’d felt something was off.

And now, one of those freaks had stepped into the light.

Who the hell is this sorcerer?

Scritch, scritch.

Rem scratched his head with his thumb as he thought.

The Madman of Immortality’s dead.

That guy was more of a brawler than a scholar.

He wasn’t exactly cut out for research.

And yet he’d dared to chase a sorcery of eternal youth.

What a joke.

The one in front of him now didn’t feel like someone living off that lunatic’s leftovers.

So then, what was this?

Within a few breaths—while the front guy was still spouting nonsense—Rem had already grasped the shape of the enemy’s tricks.

Possession?

A sorcery using one’s own body as a medium.

If you didn’t have the innate talent for it, each use would gnaw away your lifespan and wreck your health.

And that’s assuming you were lucky.

Unless he had some kind of safety mechanism.

The energy felt pretty controlled.

So it probably wasn’t a half-baked technique.

He was using it while suppressing backlash.

Watching him made Rem curious—where had that technique come from?

He was interested in sorcery, after all.

‘Still more elegant than that dumbass Molsen.’

Trying to make knights with chimera experiments—yeah, this was better than that.

That was how Rem assessed the enemy force.

The front guy, a knight barking poetry like a dog.

The one in back, a red-eyed freak who used sorcery to reach knight-level power.

‘And about a hundred bugs beyond that.’

Encircling the area was Monterre’s Swamp, a band of assassins.

If Georg’s Dagger had continent-wide fame, Monterre’s Swamp was only powerful within Azpen’s borders.

They were basically bastard children—an assassination guild born from royal and noble backing.

Not naturally formed.

Not an official royal force either.

But even bastard children get invited home once in a while.

And now, they’d been folded into the kingdom and reorganized.

All of them held poisoned daggers, darts, poison sand, nets, or barbed harpoons connected by rope.

They all glared at Rem—like their eyeballs could skewer him.

Rem could feel it even without seeing them all.

They weren’t emotionless killers.

Their tension charged the air.

But Rem didn’t care.

Whether the air burned or not, he was always just doing his thing.

“I’m sorrowful. So very sorrowful.

For I must now slay one who was gifted by the gods.”

The guy in front had a flair for the dramatic too.

Confident, clearly underestimating Rem.

Probably high on something too, considering the crap he was saying.

Lost in his own little world, he droned on like he was pleasuring himself aloud.

It was grating to hear.

And when something grates—a sharp tongue is natural.

“Did you dine with ghouls? What the hell did you eat?”

Rem, trained by Enkrid, fired back with venom.