What are these people?

Finn blinked, stunned.

She recalled a previous battle before the current battlefield, where Enkrid and a border guard named Toris—no, maybe it was Toros—had fought alongside her.

It had been intense and grueling. Finn had fought with every ounce of strength and barely survived.

"If these guys had been there, wouldn't it have been a clean sweep?"

It seemed likely.

The three chainmail-clad enemies were seasoned warriors.

One wielded a hammer, another a morning star, and the third a long staff with a heavy iron ball at its end.

They were formidable opponents.

More than anything, their movements weren’t sluggish despite their heavy weapons and armor.

"If it were me..."

Finn knew she wouldn’t stand a chance against even one of them.

Their gear countered her fighting style. Even if she managed to get close and stab with a dagger, their thick gambeson under the chainmail would likely absorb the attack unless she could drive the blade in halfway.

And even if she managed that, what next?

Would the others just watch idly as one of their own was stabbed?

One would probably smash her skull with a hammer or morning star.

Her head would burst. She’d die.

Finn couldn't muster any confidence in such a fight.

But her allies were toying with these formidable foes.

"Brother, it's time to go."

The fanatically religious soldier, more devoted to his deity than most priests, closed the gap with the morning-star wielder and smashed his opponent’s head with a bare fist.

"Isn't he supposed to be a master of the Valravn martial arts?"

Finn saw none of the elegance she’d expect. The fanatic simply overpowered his enemy with brute strength.

The morning-star wielder swung his weapon in retaliation, landing a solid hit on the fanatic’s forearm.

Despite wearing no proper armor, the blow didn’t even leave a scratch—or so it seemed.

Finn thought she’d have to check later, but for now, the arm appeared completely unscathed.

Thwack.

The impact resounded, yet the fanatic didn’t flinch.

There was no pained grunt, no visible reaction.

He merely carried on.

"Go to your lord."

The opponent, reeling from the punch to his head, staggered.

Then the fanatic pivoted on his left foot, his massive frame spinning like a small whirlwind.

His knee and hip turned in unison, his upper body perfectly balanced as he unleashed a devastating kick.

Wham!

The kick struck the enemy’s head again, causing one of his eyes to burst out of its socket despite the protection of his helmet.

"Wow, shit."

Finn’s mouth hung open in shock.

The others were no different.

The axe-wielding maniac laughed hysterically before snarling:

"What, you think wearing that shit means you won’t die?"

His opponent wielded a long staff with an iron head.

The iron-tipped staff came crashing down, but the maniac sidestepped, grabbing the shaft just below the head with one hand.

He pulled the staff toward him as he lunged, slashing with his axe.

It was terrifyingly fast. The axe cleaved into the opponent’s stomach.

Boom!

The sound was akin to a drum bursting.

Clang-clang-clang!

The axe tore through the chainmail at the waist, leaving splintered links and a spray of blood.

But it didn’t stop there.

The maniac spun on his heel, swinging the axe back in the same motion.

Slash!

The second strike dug into the already damaged chainmail, cutting through and splitting the opponent’s side nearly in half.

"Grrack!"

The man collapsed, his pink entrails spilling out along with a torrent of blood.

The golden-haired soldier with red eyes, notorious for his laziness, now fought with unexpected fervor.

Clang! Clang!

Twice, he parried a descending hammer with his sword, then thrust forward with a smooth and fluid motion.

The blade plunged into the opponent’s belly as if it had always belonged there.

Slash.

The chainmail gave way, the blade piercing through to the padded armor beneath.

The enemy attempted to counter by swinging his hammer down from above—a blind spot almost impossible to defend.

The golden-haired soldier released the sword embedded in his opponent, drawing a second blade from his waist.

Clang.

He struck upward, deflecting the hammer with his new sword.

The movement was so swift and decisive that even Finn couldn’t follow every action.

"How the hell are these guys so skilled?"

After deflecting the hammer, the soldier struck the opponent’s helmet with the flat of his blade.

Thunk.

The blow caused the enemy to drop his hammer, clutching his head as he staggered and eventually collapsed.

The golden-haired soldier calmly walked over to his fallen foe and drove the embedded sword deeper into his abdomen.

"Don’t... please..."

The sound of cracking and tearing echoed as the blade pierced all the way through the man’s body, anchoring him to the ground.

The hammer wielder, now weaponless and clutching a shield, futilely resisted before succumbing to his wounds.

While all this unfolded, something even more astonishing happened.

Nearly half of the remaining enemy soldiers, who had merely been watching, lay dead.

The cause of death? Slit throats.

Somehow, unnoticed by anyone, one of Enkrid’s comrades had been silently executing them with a single dagger.

"When did he..."

Finn's disbelief turned into words:

"Who the hell are you people?"

Standing beside her, Kraiss answered, his expression just as bewildered:

"I’d like to know that too."

Kraiss was calming his own nerves.

"Why was I even worried? They’re monsters."

The Madmen Squad fought far better than Kraiss had anticipated.

He had gauged them based on Enkrid’s abilities, but they exceeded every expectation.

For the first time, Kraiss wondered:

"If they’re this good, just how strong are knights supposed to be?"

And to the one who had assembled this unit, Kraiss silently offered his praise.

"The person who put the captain in charge here is a genius."

As they worked to set fire to the enemy’s supplies, Kraiss issued a command to Andrew, his assigned bodyguard:

"Burn it down, Andrew."

Andrew blinked, momentarily confused.

"What? Oh, right."

He had just recovered from his shock, his face brightening as he nodded and joined the effort.

With dry haystacks intended for horse feed, the fire caught quickly.

"Hurry it up." Crice urged, though no explanation was necessary.

The Madmen Squad left as the flames roared, their presence like a whirlwind fading into the distance.

Enkrid, guiding them away, commented quietly:

"I feel like I have a strange connection with setting things on fire."

"What?"

"Nothing. Let’s move."

The fire, now roaring, consumed the enemy’s supplies while Enkrid and his squad vanished like the wind.

The enemy’s trap had been destroyed. The hunt continued.

It was nothing but fire, blazing fiercely.

The flames rose high, declaring their existence.

Enkrid and the Mad Squad slipped away like the wind.

Finn, leading the way out, said they only needed to move in a straight line now. Afterward, she walked alongside Audin.

"Hey, what’s your name again?" she asked.

"Audin, sister."

"Is that so? Could I get some lessons from you later?"

Finn seemed to have developed a peculiar sense of competitiveness. Her eyes scanned Audin's unscathed arms. There wasn’t a single scratch on him.

This had nothing to do with Valafian martial arts.

Finn’s gaze carried a blend of curiosity and ambition, her expression hinting at a strange mixture of admiration and rivalry.

Enkrid didn’t care what the two were up to.

Instead, he focused on training again as they walked.

“I couldn’t use the Sense of Evasion. It’s a matter of practice,” Jaxon commented, reflecting on their recent battles.

“You want to wield two swords?” Ragna added. “Remember, only when they feel more natural than your hands will they truly be worth using.”

Unexpectedly, Rem chimed in with praise for Enkrid’s personal combat strategies.

“Using the Heart of Might for the first time back there? That was… well done.”

Was it particularly impressive?

Enkrid, as usual, paid little attention to the compliments.

“Train hard, brother. Rolling through challenges is what builds strength,” Audin said, echoing what Finn had remarked earlier.

Enkrid also believed in the principle that rolling through trials builds experience. That would only fully pay off once they returned.

But how much longer would they have to trek over these ridges? Such thoughts crossed his mind. It seemed like it was about time to pull out and head back.

Of course, there were still people they had to meet.

And sure enough, two days after they smashed through the enemy’s trap with brute force...

The squad, evading relentless pursuit by the enemy, decided to return toward the main unit. They had paused for a break, chewing on some jerky.

Thunk!

An arrow embedded itself between the members of Enkrid’s squad. It was aimed precisely at Rem’s head, but with beast-like reflexes, Rem dodged.

He twisted his body to the side in a split second.

Though he couldn’t evade it perfectly—the arrow nicked Rem’s earlobe, sending drops of blood into the air.

Crunch.

Still chewing on his jerky, Rem smiled broadly.

“The hawks are here.”

It seemed that Lem had been unusually excited lately.

Enkrid examined the arrow lodged in the ground.

Short and sturdy, it was different from before.

“They mean business this time. Can’t pick up their presence,” Finn observed. The hawk squad, originally harassing the army’s rear, had returned to hunt the Mad Squad.

In other words, they had been tracked.

Of course, this was part of the plan.

“Are we good to go?” Finn asked.

Enkrid nodded. This was all part of Kraiss’ strategy, which Enkrid fully understood.

From the beginning, the Mad Squad’s purpose and objectives had been clear: distraction and cleanup.

Now, it was time for the cleanup.

***

As the Mad Squad chipped away at enemy forces, one by one, Marcus's main army moved toward Cross Guard.

Could they conquer the city with just these troops?

Not a chance.

But it was enough to cause concern.

Meanwhile, some guerrilla force struck at the rear of the army, drawing attention.

Azpen faced limited options. Especially as a commander, his choices were restricted.

"Cross Guard won't fall. However, the fact that it was attacked will remain. The reputation of having failed to protect it will linger. Even if not now, it will matter in the next battle. We must send reinforcements and clear out the remaining enemy forces along the detour," an aide advised.

Azpen's commander contemplated deeply.

Various scenarios played out in his mind.

Assault the city? With such a meager force? It wouldn’t fall. It shouldn’t fall. But the fact that Cross Guard was attacked would be etched into history.

It was an odd game of pride.

After all, they had failed with giants and sorcery alike, leaving them in a precarious position.

Would he go down in history as the commander who surrendered the duchy's front yard?

"No, that's unacceptable," he thought.

Even if the city didn’t fall, the fact of an attack would linger. A reputation of being the commander who ceded the city would remain. Could he shoulder that stigma?

Or could this be turned into an opportunity?

It was a difficult choice, no denying it.

But it was also a one-sided dilemma.

The duchy had exhausted their prepared tricks and failed.

Naurilia had dug deeper and expanded their territory.

If things solidified in their current state, the borderlines of both nations would shift.

"Can I let that happen?"

If they crushed the enemy forces along the detour and withstood the remaining Naurilia forces' attacks? If that happened, perhaps it could turn into an opportunity to strike back from the detour.

Leaving for Cross Guard and abandoning their current position could be a blunder of epic proportions.

Whoever was leading their forces must be insane to gamble like this.

Why would they? They were already winning the battle.

Then again, couldn’t this be considered an opportunity? By not holding the detour, they had essentially opened up space for their own forces to maneuver.

"Sigh."

With his habitual hiss through his teeth, the commander issued his orders.

"Organize swift units and deploy them to the detour."

The words were accompanied by the faint whistling sound of air passing through a gap in his front teeth.

"Yes, sir!"

The duchy’s forces began to move. A deputy, tasked with strategic duties, felt an ominous unease.

"If this goes wrong..."

It wouldn’t just be a matter of shifting borderlines.

The deputy found himself longing for Abnair, Azpen’s greatest strategist.

A young genius who had integrated giants and other forces into their military strategy.

"Such a waste..."

It was a shame, truly.

The deputy believed that Abnair was a genius. He could fend for himself, surely.

"Send the knights," he suggested.

If Naurilia had its Red Cloak Knights, Azpen had the Royal Knights of Azpen.

The Azpen Royal Knights.

Their name might lack flair, but their skills were indisputable.

"Send two, no, three."

Perhaps the commander felt the same foreboding unease as his deputy.

The quality of troops sent along the detour increased. Their numbers swelled.

If the hawk unit dealt with the pesky insects harassing their rear, and the rest, including three quasi-knights, advanced?

If the plan succeeded, it could become the decisive move to turn the situation around.

***

“Captain, do you know the difference between a sniper and a hunter?”

This was the first thing Rem said after narrowly dodging the arrow.

According to Kraiss's plan, part of their task involved dealing with those so-called Hawk Talons—or Hawk Claws, Nails, or Eyebrows, as Rem jokingly put it.

The bait had already been set, carefully laid by Finn leaving the appropriate traces to lure them in.

“These guys are sharp. We need to be cautious,” Finn remarked. Meanwhile, Rem just kept grinning.

Watching him, Enkrid asked calmly, “Do I need to know?”

“Not really, but I want to tell you anyway,” Rem replied. He had a tendency to be unnecessarily honest at times—this was one of those moments. And, as always, he was talkative.

“A sniper is someone who shoots enemies from a distance, while a hunter is someone who goes after prey—quite literally.”

And the difference?

“It’s simple. Hunting is way more fun than just shooting arrows from afar. Especially hunting with an axe—oh, nothing beats that.”

Again, so what?

Enkrid’s silent, questioning gaze prompted Rem to continue.

“Just don’t go getting hit by arrows while I’m gone, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

“Where are you going?”

“Hunting, of course. When someone gives you a gift, you’ve got to return the favor, don’t you?”

Rem said this as he yanked the arrow out of the ground. With a swift motion, he tucked it into his belt and began walking toward the underbrush.

Should they just let him go?

They probably should. If he hadn’t been confident, he wouldn’t have volunteered.

As for the others...

“Jaxon?”

Enkrid called, wondering if Jaxon might want to join Rem to execute a combination of ambush and counterattack.

“No, thank you.”

Ah, firm and direct. Fair enough. That’s his prerogative.

Rem would handle things just fine on his own. Enkrid decided to trust in that.

“We’ll move on our own, then,” Enkrid said to the rest.

Rem as the hunter, the Hawk Talons as his prey.

The Mad Squad as prey for the Hawk Talons.

Though hunting was more fitting for the summer, it could still be enjoyed in the spring.

It wasn’t a stretch to call this the season of the hunt.