Enkrid was no stranger to small-scale operations like leading a reconnaissance squad. Over time, his experience had grown considerably.

Experience—there had been days filled with it.

Crossing fields of towering grass.
Attacking the Gilpin Guild with his squad.
Fighting werewolves, mages, and ambush units on a dark night.

But what was most important?
What should a commander prioritize above all else?

Awareness.

First, you needed to understand. Understand what you were doing, what your actions could lead to, and what might come next.

Of course, you couldn’t know everything. Nor could you explain it all in words.

But there was a sense—a feeling not born from instinct but from experience, honed over countless encounters.

“Let’s head further in,” Enkrid said. At his command, Finn adjusted their course without hesitation. She was loyal to her leader’s words. Meanwhile, Kraiss blinked and looked at Enkrid, curiosity etched into his face.

What was the man thinking? Kraiss couldn’t tell. Enkrid’s expression was as neutral as ever, impossible to read.

The squad picked up their pace. There was no time to linger and risk being caught from behind.

“Can’t we just fight them? Kill a few and scare them off?” Rem grumbled, his frustration evident.

“No. Keep moving,” Enkrid replied firmly, the tone of a command.

It was an unusual sight—Rem obeying without resistance. How could that not be surprising?

“Ragna, just follow the person in front of you. Don’t turn your head elsewhere,” Enkrid instructed.

Ragna complied without question. Audin and Jaxon required no such reminders. They knew their roles.

“Ha, you’re really becoming a proper leader, aren’t you, brother?” Audin remarked with a chuckle.

Had Enkrid’s skill improved so much that even his demeanor had changed?

“Is that so?” Enkrid replied nonchalantly, his tone as casual as ever.

That attitude, those actions, and that calm speech—nothing about him had changed.

And that was precisely why they followed him.

Even Kraiss, who prided himself on analyzing every detail, found his heart compelled to follow.

If even someone as cautious as Kraiss, who checked every angle and verified every possibility, was moved, what about the others?

Even Jaxon, who rarely showed his emotions, sometimes failed to hide his feelings when looking at Enkrid. Disappointment, worry, and admiration would flicker across his face.

Thinking about it made Kraiss chuckle, even though now wasn’t the time for laughter.

“Why is everything so stable?”

Even though Kraiss had calculated and planned every step of this operation, the reality felt different.

This platoon was simply more extraordinary than he had imagined.

If the enemy had their claws and talons, this side had the Mad Platoon—elite soldiers with unmatched mobility and strength. Unless one faced them with knight-level skills, stopping them was unthinkable.

That was Kraiss’s evaluation.

What if they were used as a guerrilla unit? Surely some officer had proposed such an idea.

The problem was...

“Would they even listen?”

Sure, they fought well, but they were uncontrollable chaos. While they might be a great sword, wielding it was no simple task.

What was needed?

A focal point—someone to lead and control them.

And who better than the man closest to them?

Kraiss’s mind replayed the event that had cemented his belief in Enkrid’s leadership.

“That duel.”

If Enkrid hadn’t faced his platoon on the battlefield in a mock duel, the Mad Platoon would have been finished. And without them, this front line would have collapsed.

In Kraiss’s eyes, Enkrid had changed everything.

One duel.

That single act had turned the tide of the battlefield.

“If there’s a focal point…”

With someone to unify them, this platoon could execute mad, daring missions that maximized their mobility and combat prowess.

Kraiss didn’t have the skills to evaluate their combat ability. He was no swordsman, nor was he proficient with weapons.

But based on facts and his understanding of their capabilities, he could gauge what the Mad Platoon could achieve.

This conclusion led to his first plan:

If the enemy used arrows, they would use their feet.

Though Kraiss hadn’t shared every detail with Enkrid, his platoon leader seemed to understand anyway.

“Disrupt, strike, and retreat. The enemy will be distracted by our main force’s movements, giving us a chance to encounter their guerrilla unit,” Enkrid said.

Being experienced in small-scale operations meant understanding the nuances of such tactics. Enkrid’s experiences had shaped his perspective.

“He sees the intent.”

Kraiss’s intent.
The enemy’s intent.
And what needed to be done in between.

What could the Mad Platoon do to tip the scales of the war?

“Probably not much,” Enkrid thought. But then again, Kraiss often saw things differently.

Kraiss, with his sharp eyes, obsession with money, and outlandish dream of opening a salon where he could entertain noblewomen until his death, always seemed to think on a different wavelength.

“Still dreaming about opening that salon?” Enkrid asked suddenly.

Why he asked, he didn’t know. He was just curious.

Of course, he had no intention of mocking him. Who was Enkrid to mock someone else’s dreams?

“Obviously. Why even ask?” Kraiss replied matter-of-factly.

“And yet he comes up with plans like this. Truly a mystery.”

Enkrid’s platoon increased their speed, scaling ridge after ridge.

Even Finn, the ranger, eventually stuck out her tongue in exhaustion. Andrew and Mack’s breathing grew heavier. Kraiss had to be half-carried by Audin.

Even Enkrid felt the strain.

According to Finn, this was an extraordinary forced march, even by ranger standards.

The group moved tirelessly, crossing ridges and descending into the plains. This time, they had made it deep into enemy territory.

It was a small, elite team utilizing the terrain to their advantage—a tactic the enemy guerrilla unit had first employed.

“Let’s go,” said Rem, seemingly unfazed and full of energy.

Everyone seemed invigorated by the grueling pace, as if the harsh march had only heightened their anticipation. Enkrid felt the same.

What awaited after such a march?

Combat.

Blood spilled, flesh torn, bones laid bare—the inevitable outcome of battle.

“Hit them,” Enkrid said, launching into a charge.

The enemy’s rear was riddled with gaps.

There were three sentries, but they posed no problem.

Piii!

The whistle blew the moment they were spotted.

At the same time, Jaxon lunged to the side.

Ting!

In a single step, his sword was drawn and thrust forward.

Stab.

One down.

He pulled back his blade and thrust again.

Stab.

Two down.

With two sentries dead, Jaxon raised his sword vertically in front of him to parry a potential counterattack.

Clang!

Watching Jaxon fight, one couldn’t help but think he made killing look effortless.

Two soldiers fell with holes in their necks, their bodies collapsing limply.

In total, Enkrid’s unit killed six or seven enemies before retreating again.

As they climbed another ridge, they spotted a group of enemy crossbowmen lying in wait. Recognizing the danger, they withdrew, avoiding confrontation.

They ambushed and eliminated several enemy recon units pursuing them, turning the tables completely.

As night fell, they set up camp deep in the mountains.

Adequate rest was essential.

“The stream nearby is convenient, but not being able to light a fire is a bit of a shame,” Finn said as she removed her boots to shake out the dirt.

It was spring, the season of magic—a time of mild weather.

Though their meals were meager, at least they didn’t have to shiver in the cold.

“Look, I prepared for this,” Rem said, pulling out a heated fur, his disdain for the cold evident.

Ragna lay down and slept anywhere without complaint.

Jaxon, ever resourceful, climbed a tree and rested on a sturdy branch.

The watch rotation began, with Kraiss excluded from duty.

“I’ll take a turn,” someone volunteered.

While others were busy fighting, Andrew had taken on the role of guarding Kraiss.

He volunteered for watch duty with a contemplative gaze, and no one objected.

When burdened by thoughts, even the best of one's skills can falter. And this mission still held considerable danger—danger that could not be ignored.

It was better to ease such burdens now than to carry them into battle.

Even Mack, ever pragmatic, saw no reason to oppose the arrangement.

By the next day, after crossing several mountain ridges, Kraiss realized that Enkrid fully understood his intentions.

“Now’s the time, isn’t it?” Enkrid remarked as he scanned the enemy’s location once again.

Kraiss had identified evidence of a trap set by the enemy.

The location was perfect for an ambush or a quick strike—uneven ridges surrounding a flat clearing where a supply convoy had stationed several wagons.

If they entered and blocked off the exit, escape would be nearly impossible. The terrain was as much a trap as any hidden crossbowmen or pitfall.

Yet, there were no crossbow units.

It was bait—a tempting one.

When Enkrid turned to Kraiss for confirmation, Kraiss nodded. “Yes.”

Was the Mad Platoon only known for its mobility? No. It was also renowned for its devastating combat power, the ability to strike fear into the enemy’s core.

This one skirmish could disrupt the enemy’s plans entirely.

Kraiss could already predict their reactions, envision their confusion.

“This could shift the entire momentum of the war.”

With the enemy focused on them, their main forces could move more effectively.

“Let’s go,” Enkrid commanded, steeling himself.

No matter how well you planned, the battlefield was unpredictable—a blazing fire that could ignite and burn everything, including yourself.

Were they walking into a fire carrying kindling?

“No, I don’t think so.”

The enemy didn’t know, but Enkrid did: they underestimated him.

“A soldier who killed a giant?” That was all they thought of him.

That wasn’t nearly enough.

Enkrid led the charge, sprinting toward the supply wagons nestled between the ridges.

The enemy soldiers, busy organizing provisions and supplies, reacted quickly.

If you’re going to set a trap, you must do it properly. Hiding soldiers wasn’t enough. You needed to show strength, not just bait.

The enemy soldiers emerged, their presence now unmistakable. Among them, Enkrid spotted a familiar face.

“You.”

The mustached man. A soldier from the Grey Dog Company, if he remembered correctly.

Enkrid locked eyes with him and advanced.

One of the soldiers lunged with his spear. Enkrid’s hands moved with practiced precision.

Shing! Shing!

Two rapid, fluid movements of his twin blades.

Clang! Thud!

Two distinct sounds followed.

With his left-hand sword, Enkrid deflected the spear, and with his right-hand sword, he thrust into the soldier’s chest, piercing the heart.

“Frokk would’ve been horrified to see this,” Enkrid thought idly as he withdrew his blade. Blood seeped into the gambeson, the quilted armor now stained deep red.

The fabric fibers clung to his sword, soaked with blood.

Enkrid didn’t bother wiping the blade. He’d need it clean soon enough—there were still plenty of enemies to kill.

Sliding his left-hand sword back into its scabbard, Enkrid shifted his grip on the remaining sword with both hands.

The display of strength, the aura of confidence—it froze the enemy soldiers in place. They hesitated, unwilling to approach recklessly.

“Good! Great!” Rem shouted, exhilarated, as he swung his axe with wild abandon.

Audin chuckled as he pulled out his massive club, eager for the fight.

Jaxon didn’t bother with theatrics. He simply dispatched anyone who rushed him with a detached efficiency.

But the two who drew the most attention were Enkrid and Ragna.

Ragna moved to Enkrid’s side and began swinging his sword with unrestrained ferocity. Despite carrying two additional swords strapped to his waist, his movements were fluid and unhindered.

His sword traced a chilling arc through the air.

Whoosh.

A vertical slash cleaved an enemy soldier’s head in two. Without pause, Ragna pivoted and swung horizontally, severing the neck of another soldier who had stepped back.

Ragna’s footwork was relentless.

In the battle between spear and sword, distance usually favored the spear.

But Ragna’s quick, precise steps nullified that advantage. With every nimble movement, another enemy fell.

The soldiers who had set the trap now wore expressions of growing despair.

What is this?

These soldiers were supposed to be elite enough to serve as guerrillas, but what were they facing now?

Is this real? Is this how it’s supposed to go?

There were over forty of them—more than enough to handle a small platoon.

These weren’t weak soldiers, either. Yet…

“Form ranks!” the mustached soldier bellowed.

The previously complacent enemy snapped into formation, their attitude shifting as they recognized the threat.

The mustached soldier stepped forward, directly facing Enkrid.

“You bastard,” he growled, his voice thick with fury.

Enkrid met his gaze and nodded. If the man acknowledged him, it was only polite to return the gesture.

“Ah, it’s been a while. How’ve you been?” Enkrid asked, his tone lighthearted and friendly.

The mustached man’s eyes flared with rage, his pupils quivering in madness.

It looked as though he might charge in blindly. Enkrid prepared for the attack, but the man instead took a deep breath, calming himself.

Impressive.

He wasn’t dealing with a mere hothead. The mustached man didn’t let his emotions dictate his actions. Instead of giving in to anger, he steadied his breathing and focused.

“Good. This makes it all the more worthwhile.”

Fighting with twin swords required a strong opponent to make the test meaningful.

Now was the time to see just how effective it could be.