The soft clatter of hooves echoed faintly through the quiet forest trail.

Each time the mule’s hooves touched the ground, the sound of clink, clink resonated subtly, blending with the serene surroundings. Despite the rough path filled with pebbles and tree roots, the cart drawn by the mule moved effortlessly without resistance. Watching the mule tirelessly pull the heavily loaded cart over a 20-kilometer stretch without showing signs of fatigue, it became clear why mules were the merchants' favored beasts of burden in the old days.

And then, suddenly:

“—Halt. We’ll rest here!”
“Stop!”
“Water the mule.”
“Make sure the soldiers finish their meals quickly.”

The harsh voices of men leading the procession echoed through the group, prompting the mule to halt its steps.

And for a moment:

“Ugh… k-kill me….”
“W-water…! Please, just some water….”
“Urrgh….”

Amid the once-quiet forest trail, human cries filled the air. The silence had been broken, though the cries were muffled by the gags strapped across their mouths—restraints meant for beasts, now affixed to humans.

But perhaps these faint murmurs irritated someone:

“You filthy scum!”

Whack! Whack!

One of the gruff men, or more precisely, one of the escort guards, scowled in disgust and began beating the prisoners who had dared to groan. The club in his hand was so large that a single misplaced strike could easily cripple someone for life, yet the guard showed no hesitation.

In fact:
“Die! Just die already, you criminal bastards!”

He didn’t hold back as he swung with all his might.

“Ugh!”
“Agh! P-please, spare me…!”

To an outsider, the victims of this beating might appear to be pitiable, powerless individuals. Among them, a young man moaning in pain or a frail old man might seem undeserving of such brutality. However, these were no ordinary people—they were heinous criminals.

The young man had committed over a dozen acts of fraud, ruining more than ten households in the process. The old man? A rapist—one who had assaulted children much younger than himself.

Feeling sympathy for them was unnecessary.

“Criminals don’t have rights. If they made others shed tears of blood, then let them bleed out entirely.”

This was one of the absolute decrees of Pendragon’s founding king, the Great Knight King. According to his doctrine, criminals, regardless of age, gender, or status, deserved to be reminded of the abhorrence of their mere existence.

However:
“Hey, rookie. Beat those guys all you want, but don’t lay a hand on that group over there.”
“Why not? They’re just criminals too.”
“...Kid, the way you question your superior makes you seem like a complete moron. Or, in this case, an overly eager moron.”
“M-my apologies…”
“Don’t apologize if you’re going to keep doing it. Anyway, since our overly eager rookie seems curious, let me explain. Those guys over there are heading to the ‘Tunnel.’”
“T-the Tunnel? You mean, that…?”

At the mention of the "Tunnel," the escort guard's face briefly showed a hint of pity. Those sent to the Tunnel were often dragged there under circumstances more unjust than the rest, unlike the irredeemable filth choking on their own breaths.

“Don’t waste your sympathy. Even they’re either soldiers or knights who killed our men during the war… or rebellious farmers who rose up against some rotten noble.”
“……”
“You’ll meet all sorts in this job, so don’t get too emotional. You’ll burn out quickly if you do.”
“...Understood.”

Yet, being new to the job, the rookie’s inability to hide his emotions was evident. His superior gave a bitter smile, as if to say he had expected as much. He reminisced about his own early days, recalling his struggles to control similar feelings. Then, casting a glance at the criminals bound for the Tunnel, his gaze turned sharp.

Unlike the rookie, he wasn’t gazing at them with emotions like pity or anger.

‘Hmm, so those two over there… are they the knights and the noble heir we were warned about?’

He had received intel that among the prisoners were notable individuals—figures of significant standing. Naturally, this drew his attention.

‘Wow, those two have quite the intimidating presence. Are all knights built like that?’

Most of the prisoners wore nothing but trousers, their torsos bare to prevent any hidden weapons. This made their physiques impossible to ignore. And among them:

“...!!”

The guard’s breath hitched.

‘What the hell… How can that even be a human body?’

Standing among them was a man whose body made even the robust frames of the two knights pale in comparison. The man’s physique was beyond what the guard could comprehend.

Muscles—if they could even be called muscles—intertwined as if forged from chains of steel. Just looking at him made it clear: no one here could possibly defeat him.

In fact, even if every escort guard present joined forces, the outcome wouldn’t change.

‘What kind of monster is this…?’

The mere sight of him was awe-inspiring and terrifying.

‘Thank the heavens he’s coming along quietly.’

Perhaps someone close to him was being held hostage, or maybe there was some other reason for his compliance. Whatever it was, the guard found solace in the fact that the man wasn’t resisting.

‘...In any case, it’s a relief.’

But then, a thought crossed his mind:
‘Wait, weren’t there supposed to be four knights among the prisoners?’

As the one overseeing the escort, he had been informed that out of the 48 prisoners heading to the Tunnel, four were knights. Yet, aside from the three individuals he had already identified…

‘I don’t see anyone else who fits the description.’

Granted, one shouldn’t judge a knight solely by appearance. But given his raised standards, he saw no one else who resembled a knight and scratched his head in confusion.

‘Did I hear wrong?’

What he didn’t know was that there were, indeed, four knights. One of them was a certain noble heir with unkempt gray hair that resembled a stray dog.

And that knight, Arend de Pendragon, was sitting with a dazed expression, unable to accept reality.

‘...Why me?’

He stared resentfully at the monster who had dragged him into this hell four days ago.

‘You merciless brute…!’

“Better keep your eyes open.”

“……”

“Unless you want them gouged out.”

“…My eyes are forward. I don’t see why you have to make such frightening remarks.”

“……”

“…Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut too.”

Arend’s timid defiance was quickly quashed. After all, a fist nearby was far scarier than distant authority.

“—You really went all out.”

A clatter echoed as bricks—once a wall—fell to the ground.

“…I sincerely regret this time.”
“You’d better. You’ve caused such extensive damage to royal property.”

The aftermath of a clash between two men was catastrophic. Believe it or not, it took less than five minutes for about twenty iron bars to be utterly destroyed.

And yet:
“You look like a complete mess.”

The fight, it seemed, hadn’t been evenly matched but entirely one-sided. Ihan’s condition was a testament to this.

Bruises and injuries covered his body. Anyone who saw him might have mistaken his state for the result of rolling down a steep hill.

But Ihan muttered bitterly that rolling down an actual hill would’ve been less painful.

 

"It's because I got hit so much. The guy seemed to have it out for me today—he just went berserk."

Although it was described as a clash, in reality, Ihan was on the receiving end of a thorough beating from Baltar. Actually, even "beating" seemed like an understatement.

"Do you know how these iron bars and bricks got destroyed? That guy pinned me down, grabbed my leg, and swung me around like a rag doll until the walls came down. Treating me like a toy… I thought I was going to die."
"……."

…Honestly, it’s more surprising that your body didn’t break after all that.

Though Isis’s expression conveyed this sentiment, Ihan was too distracted to notice.

"Anyway, is this about me paying for the damage? I don’t have any money. Just send the bill to that guy—he’s the one who destroyed everything."

Ihan remained in the ruined prison cell. The iron bars were long gone, but the bed provided by the soldiers was surprisingly comfortable. He found the place cozy enough to stay voluntarily, knowing that leaving would only bring about more annoying situations.

If anyone thought they could get money from someone who made even a broken prison feel like home, they were clearly barking up the wrong tree.

"If you tried billing Sir Baltar, every knight in this kingdom would become your enemy. That’s not exactly a brilliant suicide method I’d recommend."
"…That guy’s really that big of a deal?"
"Of course. Probably the only person in the entire kingdom who treats him as casually as a next-door neighbor is you. Do you think they call him a Great Hero for nothing?"
"Well, all I see is a guy who’s always lazing around."
"He earned his ‘immortal accomplishments’ when he was young. As long as he lives in this kingdom, every knight will revere him. They grew up hearing tales of his exploits like bedtime stories."

Isis’s voice was calm, devoid of emotion. Her tone carried a sense of reverence, as if even the heir to the throne deeply respected Baltar. Yet…

‘Didn’t these two have a bad history together?’

Ihan knew better.

Her monotonous voice, tinged with irritation, betrayed her true feelings.

‘Same old story.’

He hadn’t heard the full details, but based on rumors circulating among the knights, about 25 years ago, Isis—back when she was merely a "princess" and not yet crown princess—had “asked” Baltar to support her.

But Baltar, being who he was, had already become a legendary knight by her twenties and was famously loyal only to the previous king.

So, naturally, the outcome was predictable:

"Stop bothering me, Princess. Go play house by yourself."

Apparently, those were his exact words.

Ihan could bet his hair that Baltar had said it just like that.

"Forget the iron bars and the Silver Lion Knights. Sir Baltar will handle everything."
"……."
"Don’t think I’m being petty. Even after 20, even 50 years, some humiliations can never be forgotten."
"…I don’t know where that came from, but are you really saying I don’t have to take responsibility?"

Ihan had no interest in getting involved in someone else’s feud. He cared far more about his own affairs.

Isis gave him an annoyed look, but Ihan, as usual, remained shameless. She massaged her furrowed brow in irritation before continuing:

"If those knights had any shred of shame, they wouldn’t dare hold you accountable. Losing to a single person is disgraceful enough, but they even had to call reinforcements and mobilize soldiers out of pettiness. They’ve already been defeated in every way—both in strength and in principle. If, despite all this, they fail to recognize their own faults and losses… then, at that point, they wouldn’t even deserve to live."
"…You don’t hold back, do you?"
"That’s because I mean it."
"……."
"Do we really need a knightly order with no honor or strength?"
"Correction. It’s not your words that are ruthless—it’s you, sis."

Ihan shook his head.

Suddenly, Isis asked:

"Do you remember me mentioning I had a request for you?"
"…I remember."
"Then I’d like you to start on it now."
"Hmm…"
"Can you do it?"
"……."

Ihan gave a bitter smile. She called it a "request," but he could tell it was more of an order disguised as a favor.

‘Wow, this is heavy.’

He recalled a conversation he’d once had over tea with the white-haired butler.

"The Princess often refers to herself as ‘We.’ But this isn’t just to elevate herself—it’s more of a mental strategy, according to you, Sir Ihan."
"Who, my sister? You’re joking, right?"

At the time, Ihan had thought he’d misheard. A woman so naturally arrogant she could have declared herself the center of the universe needed mental coping mechanisms? The very idea was absurd.

But the butler, that almost inhumanly wise man, had explained further:

"She’s more fragile than she seems. However, when she’s among allies, she relaxes. That’s why she sometimes uses ‘I’ in your presence. I find it… endearing."
"…I find it unsettling."

The butler’s words had left a permanent mark on Ihan’s memory—unshakable and oddly haunting.

That’s how Ihan knew.
When she lowered herself to speak personally, it wasn’t an order but a genuine request.

"Butler, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this kind of trust and respect."

"That only means you’re very important to her, Sir Ihan."

Hearing the butler’s voice replay in his mind, Ihan sighed inwardly.

"Don’t worry. As long as it helps my disciple, I’ll handle whatever you need."
"You’re very devoted to your student."
"By the way, is this something I have to do alone?"
"Having skilled and trustworthy people with you would certainly make it easier. Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Two people. Both skilled and reliable."
"I can already guess who they are."
"You know too much, as always. Oh, right—there’s one more person I need to bring."
"?"

Isis raised an eyebrow, curious. Was there someone Ihan knew that she didn’t?

But it wasn’t an ally.

In fact:

"There’s someone who needs a bit of discipline."
"…Oh my, now that I like."

Even though the person Ihan referred to was someone of high status, possibly even untouchable, with Isis’s blessing, there was no one he couldn’t take.

Presently:

"Heh… hah… hah…"
"Walk faster. Even the mule’s walking better than you."
"I… I’m not a mule!"
"Oh, really?"
"I-I’m not!"
"…Persistent brat."

Despite his arrogance, the person was clearly trying to be less insolent, which made the scene somewhat amusing.

But:

‘From now on, there won’t be anything to laugh about.’

As the destination came into view, Ihan’s expression grew serious.

‘…The Crimson Cross Army, huh?’

This was going to be a headache.

‘Did the author read too many martial arts novels before writing this romance fantasy?’

As an avid martial arts novel reader, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the organization’s overly familiar, cliché-sounding name.