Chapter 553: The Youngest, Mad for Blood

Despite being a noble, Harrison was a man who cultivated his land with his own hands.

Even though his skin burned under the sun and his head had gone bald, he never wavered in his way of life.

Why?

Because he loved the land, enjoyed the work, and had a clear goal in life.

Thus, he didn’t care if others mocked him for being bald or cursed him as a miser.

Did he not indulge in luxury?

No, he enjoyed luxuries greater than even those of kings.

Who tasted the finest wheat, grain, and fruit that came from his land first?

The king?

No — it was himself.

There was no greater luxury.

He was a noble, and a farmer.

"Is the Safe Road all you need?"

Enkrid asked again.

Harrison found the reaction strange.

He had never met someone like this.

Was there anyone who tried to help him this much without asking for something in return?

No demand for subjugation, no insistence on serving under him.

It wasn’t unusual for nobles to become vassals under others.

Wasn’t the Duke of Octo leading a group of nobles that way?

But Enkrid — he didn’t seem to want anything.

He simply said he would help.

"Why are you being kind to me?"

Harrison asked.

He had obstructed Enkrid, picked at him, even knowing his reputation.

Enkrid could have sliced off his arms or legs in anger, and Harrison would have had no right to complain.

Not that he would have given them up quietly, of course.

"Just because."

Enkrid didn't bother to explain.

He had always been that kind of person.

Of course, Harrison, meeting him for the first time, found it bewildering.

Just then, the gray-haired Noble Slayer approached, holding a wine glass casually — and looking surprisingly well-suited to it — and said,

"That’s just how he is. There might be a reason, but don’t try to understand it. It'll only give you a headache. By the way, do you know about the stray cat whose heart burned black from being dumped by every woman he ever met?"

Rem was, at that moment, continuing his campaign to spread Jaxon’s new nickname.

Harrison listened half-heartedly to Rem’s words and kept his eyes on Enkrid.

Without any need for words, Enkrid said,

"Tend your land. If that’s your dream."

"See? No reason."

Rem said, sipping his wine.

To Harrison, Enkrid still looked like a sculpture carved by the gods.

His words struck like lightning.

He couldn’t respond.

A dream?

Did Enkrid even know what he was saying?

Harrison had tried to establish a militia within his territory, similar to the concept of the Safe Road.

But it was easier said than done — the effort and costs were enormous.

Hiring mercenaries wasn’t an option either.

It would be no different from inviting bandits into his land.

If they decided to take over his territory, or if they "accidentally" killed his people, would he have the power to punish them?

Ultimately, he had to form a militia with people he could trust.

But sword talent wasn't common.

He could build walls, yes, but building a force strong enough to defend all farmland was nearly impossible.

Besides, Harrison was good at raising farmers, not warriors.

Thanks to a handful of drifters who sought settlement and proved dependable, he was barely holding on.

Still, Harrison wanted to protect his farmland — to revive the dead lands scattered across his territory.

Based on his knowledge, it was possible.

Not easy, but possible.

He knew this better than anyone.

'Still, I have to do it.'

For the sake of future generations, for a better future for his land — for a better life.

Yet whenever he tried, people around him would dissuade him.

"Isn’t it enough that you’re living well now?"

"Why bother expanding your territory?"

"Monsters killing people is just natural. Why risk more lives unnecessarily?"

No.

It wasn’t natural.

It was his duty as a lord to protect those who wanted to cultivate land — to provide them a better life.

That was how he saw it.

But others mocked him.

A petty noble scratching at dirt.

That was the nickname they gave him.

And now.

Enkrid — the master of the legendary Mad Knight Order.

Hero of the Border Guard.

The Demon Slayer.

The Knight of the Iron Wall.

Someone who, if he wished, could dismiss Harrison with harsher words than anyone else.

Yet he said this:

To cultivate the land and realize his dream.

Harrison thought of his wife, waiting for him at home.

"If the God of Plenty ever needs you, He’ll send you a sign."

Why was he remembering those words now?

Because now was the time?

He didn’t know.

But even if it wasn’t a god, Harrison decided to believe this was the sign.

The gods might give life, but it was up to living beings to shape it.

Resolute, he made his decision.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a new glass bottle.

"Give me back what I handed you earlier. Let’s trade."

Without a word, Enkrid handed it back.

The two exchanged glass bottles.

Dozens of eyes watched.

Among them were the Marquis of Barnas, the Duke of Octo, and Crang, who had quietly taken seats.

It was customary to loudly announce the king’s arrival at a banquet, but Crang had deliberately blocked it.

At a glance, he could tell something interesting was happening — he had taken the stance of a bystander.

Harrison was, after all, a famous figure.

A noble who stubbornly cultivated his land and harvested fruit.

His domain was unique:

Every citizen there was required to study and research to increase agricultural yield.

The lord himself led by example, and even experts in the field resided in his territory.

Perhaps because of this — or maybe by divine whim — about ten years ago, his land had been truly blessed.

Not just a good harvest — real, tangible divine blessing.

A small spring had risen from the ground, leaving behind just enough sacred water for a single sip before vanishing.

One early morning, as Harrison prepared his pitchfork to head into the fields, he had discovered it.

Carefully cupping the water in his hands, he found that not a single drop spilled.

He had sealed it immediately in an expensive glass bottle — far pricier than he would normally allow himself — preserving it.

That was the famous sacred spring water.

The effects and powers of the water were unknown.

But the holy nature of it was beyond question — a fact already widely known.

Even high-ranking priests had come, claiming divine mandate to demand it — and had been refused.

Major trading houses had offered massive sums — he denied them too.

"There’s no such thing. What, holy water that doesn't evaporate from your hands? Nonsense!"

Rumors had spread that Harrison carried that bottle everywhere.

In response, he had bought a few expensive potions and carried them instead — potions worth more than their weight in gold.

"The sacred spring water."

And now, he had brought it out.

The very thing he had always denied having.

Enkrid accepted the new bottle without even checking its contents.

Didn’t ask if it was real.

He simply received it — because it was offered.

Whether it had been a potion, a gold ring, or anything else, it would not have mattered.

Expensive wine might be worth its weight in gold.

A healing potion might be worth triple its weight.

But this bottle — this sacred water — could not be bought even if you stacked ten times its weight in gold.

It was never the kind of item you simply handed over casually.

"Hrk!"

One of the nobles watching inhaled sharply.

Just giving that away?

Sensing the reactions around him, Enkrid asked,

"Seems like a precious item. Why are you giving it to me?"

Half in jest, he tossed out the question, and Harrison — who had not once shown even a crack of a smile since the royal council — now gave a rough, genuine grin.

"Just because."

"I’ll make good use of it."

"Do so."

And that was the end of it.

Harrison didn’t demand any promises from Enkrid, nor did he press him for anything.

Except for Crang and a few others, most didn't realize it, but Enkrid never bore grudges in the first place.

For those who didn’t know, this wasn’t just strange — it was downright baffling.

"Why would he give that away?"

"What’s going on between them?"

"Is it because he’s too good-looking?"

Some muttered nonsense, but it didn’t matter.

It was simply a transaction between two people.

Harrison gave what he had.

Enkrid agreed to do what was asked.

That was all.

"Puh, no one even dared to breathe watching that," Crang commented from among the onlookers.

At his words, those who recognized the king quickly stepped back.

"Hrk, Your Majesty—"

"Ah! When did he get here!"

"Carry on as you were. Don’t mind me," Crang said casually and then turned to Enkrid.

"I told you not to hate him. Did you bully him instead?"

Though they were close friends, Crang was still the king in public settings.

Then again, this was a banquet, not a formal event.

"Who bullied who?"

It was a joke — suggesting Enkrid had extorted a precious gift.

Enkrid, quick on the uptake, fired back without missing a beat.

"If not, then all’s well."

Crang had started it.

"And you’re still single, I hear. Why is that?"

The Duke of Octo cut in sharply.

"Is a reason necessary?"

"No, not really. By the way, did you know Kin has officially joined the Border Guard?"

This time, the Marquess of Baisar chimed in.

Everyone seemed desperate to talk now.

"I doubt he knows, My Lord," Kin Baisar herself answered, stepping forward.

She had recently returned to the capital for official business and was standing nearby.

Addressing the Marquess first, she then offered a small nod toward Enkrid and said,

"You remember my name now, don't you?"

There were some whose heads turned /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ and spirits fluttered just from seeing Enkrid’s face, but Kin Baisar was not one of them.

She maintained a proper distance.

Though Enkrid was stunning to look at, Kin was not foolish enough to invest her heart in a man who showed no interest.

"Hard to forget a name like yours."

Enkrid accepted her greeting smoothly.

From there, it became a true banquet: eating, drinking, and enjoying oneself.

No one collapsed in drunken disgrace — no one had the guts to embarrass themselves in front of the king.

Especially since, for now, everyone was busy trying to greet Enkrid and leave an impression.

There were young nobles who harbored jealousy, but those who admired or respected Enkrid were several times greater in number.

The jealousy, honestly, was mostly about his appearance.

"What are we supposed to do if he’s even got that face?"

Such mutterings circulated.

Even the envious admitted to Enkrid’s ability.

Meanwhile, the Noble Slayer wandered about, making casual conversation here and there.

Despite the rumors calling him a mad dog, he was surprisingly neat — especially when it came to matters with women.

"Your name was Rem, yes?"

A noblewoman, long widowed, touched Rem’s arm, trailing her fingers suggestively.

It was a clear signal — she was interested.

"I have a wife."

Rem shut her down with a single sentence.

This happened several times over the night.

Still, Rem never lost his easygoing attitude, chatting with anyone who approached him.

There was no coercion or coldness.

It was just casual talk, sipping wine, sampling food, pastries, and desserts.

Exactly the kind of light conversation you'd expect at a banquet.

Moreover, he didn’t discriminate by status or gender.

He even struck up conversations with escorts and bodyguards, many of whom were struggling with their training.

To each, he gave simple advice.

"Hey, you should just train more consistently. You blame your lack of talent when your gut’s hanging over your belt? Want me to crack your skull with an axe?"

His words could sound rough, but they were taken as jokes — both by him and by the ones he spoke to.

That was enough.

In the end, the last thing he often said was always something similar:

"Have you heard the rumor spreading through the Border Guard? About the stray cat who wanders at night, rejected by women everywhere? Think it’s not about me? Well, it isn’t. But the cat’s real. His name’s Jaxon. Don’t forget."

That’s the kind of thing he said.

He chatted indiscriminately — with servants, squires, knights, and nobles, young or old.

Meanwhile, Audin, who bore the nickname of the Bear Beastman (a misunderstanding), simply watched from the sidelines.

Some people approached him too, and he responded politely, though less energetically than Rem.

Still, Audin always spoke his mind when he needed to.

"You mean the sly stray cat? Yes, he exists. And the blood-crazed killer? Yes, he enjoys the sight of blood, but he’s currently bedridden. It’s because he slacked off in training. The youngest — ah, that’s just a nickname within our order. Don’t mind it. Oops. I slipped. Lord, punish my loose tongue."

"The blood-crazed killer... is the youngest?"

"That was just a slip. Please forget it."

While Rem simply blurted things out, Audin used a much craftier method.

Normally, when you want to spread a rumor, people whisper about it quietly.

But if you tell them to forget it — they’ll spread it faster and wider.

And so, the title of the blood-crazed youngest was born.

Of course, no one knew it yet.