Kraiss tucked the rolled parchment back into his chest and opened his mouth to speak.

“This path is rough,” he muttered.

The incline was steep, and the jagged path was littered with uneven rocks, making it a struggle to catch his breath. Even so, it wasn’t bad enough to keep him from speaking.

“Rem is... Rem is…”

He exhaled sharply, pushing his foot into a crevice between the rocks. A moment of dizziness washed over him. Just as that thought crossed his mind, a hand appeared before him—Enkrid’s outstretched hand.

Gripping it, Kraiss hauled himself up.

Behind them stood a towering rock, a natural shield in this mountainous terrain.

Of all the paths to choose, they had to pick the hardest one.

Well, it was fitting in a way. It made their effort meaningful.

At least they weren’t being showered with arrows. That was something.

“If it weren’t for his personality, Rem might just be the perfect soldier,” Kraiss said.

Enkrid stood on a rock, leaning his back against another, glancing sideways at Kraiss.

“In terms of skill,” Kraiss added.

Enkrid opened his mouth to reply but closed it again.

“Skill-wise, he’s far beyond adequate,” Enkrid finally said.

What if Rem’s personality had been more easygoing?

Kraiss posed another question, his voice tinged with uncertainty despite his confidence in the plan.

“You think he’ll be okay?”

It was a question born of Kraiss’s habitual worry. Despite his relaxed demeanor, he was the type to secretly stash his belongings near the barracks in case of unexpected chaos.

If you dug around the city, you’d likely find a few things he had hidden away.

“You never know when the enemy might ambush us. If I died with all my stuff left out, I’d probably haunt the place out of regret.”

Even though there wasn’t a single sign of impending danger.

Even though such an event was practically impossible.

“I just can’t help it. I feel uneasy,” Kraiss muttered.

He always said the same thing. His wide eyes seemed perpetually restless.

Well, that was fair enough.

Not everyone was the same, after all.

Compared to Kraiss, Enkrid thought of himself as more carefree.

After a moment of quiet observation, Enkrid finally responded to Kraiss’s concern.

“I said I’d take care of it. He’ll handle it.”

That’s the kind of person Rem was. If he said he’d do it, he’d do it.

“Did he ever hesitate to teach you?”

Even when Rem had taught him the Beast’s Heart technique, he’d said the same.

“Watch carefully. You’ll be learning this next.”

It was the same when he demonstrated the Heart of Might.

He had vowed to kill the Giant—and he did.

Thinking about it now…

‘He really is a remarkable guy.’

Rem would handle things exactly as he’d said.

What had he said before he left?

The difference between a hunter and a sniper? And something else…

“I’ll plant this arrow squarely in that hawk bastard’s head,” Rem had said, tucking the enemy’s arrow into his belt.

So, Enkrid trusted him to handle it.

“From here, hiding won’t be easy,” Finn said from up ahead. Until now, they had been moving between rocks, staying out of sight.

Unless they gained higher ground, it would be difficult to stay hidden from enemy missile fire.

It was a moment that underscored Finn’s skill as a ranger. Thanks to her expertise, they had evaded danger thus far.

But that cover was coming to an end.

Enkrid calculated the time in his head. It felt like Rem should be making his move about now.

They had been skirting the mountain, heading downward. To the left was a path leading back to the main unit.

“We just have to wait here,” Enkrid said.

Finn didn’t respond. She sensed a certain bond between the men—a trust that Rem would handle things alone.

What about the others?

Aside from Andrew and Mack, the rest were utterly nonchalant.

Audin was praying.

Jaxon, on the other hand, was inspecting a stiletto blade, his expression blank yet oddly euphoric.

Enchanted by the blade? Finn wasn’t sure. The dagger certainly didn’t seem ordinary, but there was a strange liveliness to Jaxon’s face—something not often seen.

Meanwhile, a lazy soldier sprawled out nearby. He had somehow wedged himself into a crack between the rocks, clutching two swords to his chest as he closed his eyes.

“I need more sleep,” he muttered to himself.

He was muttering to himself, clearly not in his right mind.

‘Should I even leave him like this?’

Probably.

By Finn’s judgment, it was time to move. Somewhere out there, a sharpshooter with deadly precision lurked.

The threat was real. For all they knew, their lives were hanging by a thread.

“It should be fine,” Kraiss said from beside her.

Despite all his talk about unease, he had the audacity to declare it would all work out.

And then he followed up with something even more absurd.

“I think there aren’t many variables left.”

What variables?

He didn’t elaborate.

Finn leaned out deliberately, checking the rear. She was intentionally making herself a target to locate the enemy’s position.

No arrows came flying.

***

“Ah, brings back memories.”

Once upon a time, Rem had lived with the plains as his bed and the sky as his blanket.
Days spent running and playing, with the mountain ridges as his playground.

What had he been like back then?
He was a brilliant and skilled hunter, someone who carried the weight of others’ expectations.

Caught between duty and responsibility, in a time where power was constantly debated.
There were good moments and bad ones.
Moments that were now forever out of reach.

What could one do?
You accept what you must and keep living.

The West had become a frontier now.

Acceptance and acknowledgment.
Rem had learned these things by watching Enkrid.

In some ways, his commander was a man who would never accept or acknowledge anything.
Yet, in another sense, he was someone who could accept, acknowledge, and even embrace certain truths.

“That talent, that skill...”

To become a knight without giving up?
That had been nothing short of a suicide attempt—an act that would destroy both body and mind.

Yet, Enkrid had pressed forward. Watching his back, Rem had often found himself deep in thought.

How could a man be like that?

As that question arose, so did a realization.

“It begins with accepting what you lack.”

That had been Enkrid’s starting point. Accepting, acknowledging, and embracing it.

Once he revisited what he possessed, what did he do next?
He moved forward. He had taken on the Beast’s Heart, a feat that once seemed impossible to survive.

Now, that heart even carried the Heart of Might.

Enkrid accepted, acknowledged, and embraced these truths, and then marched on toward tomorrow.

Whether at dawn or dusk, his resolve was unshaken.

Thinking of his commander never failed to lift Rem’s spirits.

He broke into a quiet smile.

Feeling oddly cheerful, a thought struck him:

“It’s been a while.”

Maybe it was time to swing his axe around again with vigor, to return to those days when hunting defined him.

It wasn’t hard to find traces of the Hawk Talons.

Rem wasn’t a Pathfinder, nor a Ranger.
But he was a hunter.

And what was a hunter?

A Pathfinder was someone who could traverse terrain well.
A Ranger was someone who could both traverse and fight skillfully.
Specialized scouts among reconnaissance teams—they were Rangers. But were they hunters?

Catching a few rabbits didn’t make you a hunter.

So what was a hunter?

“What else could it be?”

Someone who properly captures their target.

The people of the continent often fell short of this.
Take Enri, for instance—a so-called plains hunter. A hunter? Hardly.

In Rem’s tribe, someone like Enri wouldn’t even qualify as a guide, let alone a hunter.
He wasn’t even half of one.

In his tribe’s teachings, hunters were those who killed and secured their prey.
They were the ones who sustained the tribe’s livelihood.

“Found them.”

At the end of his thoughts, Rem’s eyes fell upon his prey.

His nose twitched as he tracked their scent, circling around to take position behind them.

Erasing his tracks? That was trivial.

Walking silently? He was as stealthy as a cunning wildcat.

By his standards, prey could be classified as either difficult or easy.
And right now?

This was the easiest kind.
A fool completely engrossed in his target. What could be simpler?

His steps were as calculated as the most skilled predator of the western wilderness.
His breathing long and measured, his presence utterly concealed.

He mimicked the techniques of the hunters of the Western Lake, silent as a round-headed predator.

The faint rustle of his clothing brushing past didn’t matter.

His prey’s attention was fixed ahead.

Closing the distance, Rem moved directly behind the last in the line.

The enemy had no idea he was there.

They were making their way uphill, a string of them climbing one after the other.

Rem reached out, placing his hand on the left shoulder of the man in front of him.

Startled, the man spun around.

“Quick reflexes.”

The moment Rem tapped his left shoulder, he moved to the right.
His movements were ghostlike in speed and panther-like in silence.

From the enemy’s perspective, they had felt a hand on their left shoulder and turned—only to find nothing there.

Thwack!

And then came the axe.

A blow swung into the nape of their neck as though splitting firewood.

With a wet, cracking sound, blood sprayed.

The splattering crimson stained Rem’s cheek, but instead of smiling, his gray eyes observed the rest of the group as they turned toward him.

Their faces froze in fear.
Their wide eyes reminded him of herbivores—deer caught in headlights.

Seeing such expressions was one of the thrills of hunting, wasn’t it?

“...An ambush!”

“Shit!”

“Block him!”

Curses erupted as chaos broke loose.

As they lunged toward him, Rem lowered his body. Three of them simultaneously drew short swords with a sharp chik-chak-ching!

“Good reactions.”

Rem shrugged his right shoulder and moved his left hand.

It was a simple trick.

His axe was in his right hand, so their attention naturally focused there.

Sure enough, their eyes stayed fixed on his right shoulder.

In that moment, a hand axe flew from his left hand with a whoosh, embedding itself in the forehead of an archer at the back.

The force sent the archer flying backward.

“Scatter!”

One of the men shouted. Smart, really.

If they stayed clustered together, they’d die. Did he recognize the difference in skill, or was it mere instinct?

Regardless, the command was timely.

Even as the order rang out, three sword-wielding men charged straight at Rem. A pre-planned maneuver.

Meanwhile, five others broke off, scattering quickly to the sides and climbing down the rocky slopes, while one climbed higher.

Of the original ten, two were already dead.

Rem began to swing his axe with calculated precision.

Naturally, they were no match for him.

He cleaved and slashed, his simple movements becoming the scythe of death to his enemies.

Among the carnage, soaked in blood, the gray-haired hunter twitched his nose.

Through the stench of blood, he caught the faint scent of human fear.

Trained by his tribe’s hunting traditions, the hunter moved again.

Rem had no intention of letting a single one escape.

***

“What the…”

The Hawk Talon could feel the sensation of being hunted.

It was infuriating.

Born in a mountain village in Azpen, he had been a natural with the bow from a young age.
By the time he was fifteen, he was already the best hunter in the village. To him, that had been only natural.

Every shot landed where he aimed, and he instinctively knew where to strike to kill.

After leaving the village to become a mercenary, he earned himself a reputation, which caught the eye of a noble.

From there, he joined the army.

It marked the beginning of a new life, one filled with status and wealth.

“What do you say to becoming part of the Duchy?”

He was on the cusp of being adopted by the nobleman he had saved.

A foster father barely ten years his senior? What did it matter?

Status was all that mattered.

This mission was supposed to be his final hurdle.

“I’ll grant you newly acquired land,” the noble had promised.

The Hawk Talon could see it clearly: a future where he owned land and surpassed the constraints of his current status.

If things went well, he might even marry his foster sister.

Whish. Thunk!

“Argh!”

A sudden, sharp pain shot through the back of his thigh as something embedded itself there. He toppled forward, the agony forcing a guttural cry from his lips.

His head hit a rock with a thud, sending his vision spinning.

It took him several moments of labored breathing before the world came back into focus.

“Ugh.”

As his vision cleared, his stomach churned. He coughed, fighting back the nausea, and looked ahead.

“You run well, don’t you?”

What he saw was death itself—the Grim Reaper with gray hair.

“How…?”

The Hawk Talon stammered. How had this man followed him?

Why hadn’t he noticed his approach? The question carried a torrent of confusion and fear.

Rem didn’t talk to his prey.

Thud.

An arrow—the very one the Hawk Talon had fired—pierced his neck. The arrowhead tore clean through the soft flesh and jutted out the back.

Blood bubbled and spilled down his throat, painting the gray rock beneath him red.

“Hm.”

Rem admired his handiwork for a moment before brushing his hands clean.

It had been a long time since he last hunted, and the prey had been far too underwhelming.

Regrettable, perhaps, but it was over.

Acceptance. Acknowledgment. Consent.

The same thoughts swirled in his mind. Throughout the hunt, Rem had been thinking of his commander.

What would happen if he lived his life like Enkrid?

It was a question that had occupied his thoughts recently.

* * *

Marcus was leading his troops in a march toward the Cross Guard.

Two days. That was all it would take at a normal marching pace.

No, this was slower than normal.

They rested whenever necessary.

“Will this work?”

And if it didn’t? What would they do then?

Should he ask Enkrid, the one who had proposed the plan?

No, his subordinates weren’t foolish enough to need handholding.

“If it doesn’t work, we withdraw. Whether they fall for it or not, the enemy will still be forced to respond.”

“Attacking the city directly would be a poor move, but this…”

The soldier speaking, relaying the strategy from Enkrid through the Faerie Company’s leader, was Kraiss.

Marcus found it odd that not a single person in Enkrid’s squad seemed normal.

Still, it was a clever plan.

Feign an assault on the city and divert the troops to block the rear.

If the enemy reinforced the city or redirected their forces to defend against the flank? Success.

And if they didn’t budge? That would also be a success.

Wasn’t that why the Mad Platoon had been deployed in the first place?

Even if they couldn’t land a decisive blow to the enemy’s rear, they could at least snap a few fingers and retreat unscathed.

Marcus trusted that their finger snap would hit hard enough.

“Maybe it’s the strongest finger snap on the continent?”

Pfft.

The thought made him chuckle.

In any case, the plan unfolded as expected. Two days of marching, gathering information, followed by another three to four days of waiting.

They had followed the plan to the letter.

After four days of marching, they turned back. The return trip was equally unhurried.

Marcus wasn’t in any rush to leave.

He wanted to see them—the Mad Platoon.

That wish was fulfilled.

“Mad Platoon, seven members excluding the commander, reporting back.”

The raiding party had returned.