“Why the hell are they not here?”

The detached unit of the Duchy of Azpen, which included three junior knights, couldn’t find a single trace of the enemy.

Shouldn’t there be troops stationed here to guard the rear?

Or at least some kind of trace—anything?

They were supposed to be heading toward the Cross Guard, right? So where were they?

Not even a reconnaissance squad had been sent to check their movements.

Before a real battle begins, it’s customary for reconnaissance teams to run into each other. They’d trade insults, fire a few arrows, and then the actual clash would begin.

That was how things were supposed to go.

To engage them, the Duchy’s forces had pulled away part of their strength specifically for this maneuver.

Three junior knights, no less.

They had even diverted some of their knights to bolster this operation. While the main force had a few giants and special units stationed with them, this detachment represented a significant reduction in their main strength.

In short, they were here to fight. They had to fight.

But so far…

Crunch, crunch.

The commander’s boots scuffed against loose gravel beneath his feet.

Nothing.

All they had encountered were a few ghouls that had crawled out of the riverbank and some faint traces of an encampment, about three days old.

“What about Hawk Talon?”

“We’ve lost contact with him.”

Even the raiding squad, tasked with monitoring the area and regrouping, had vanished.

“Dead, then?”

The commander, a junior knight himself, asked bluntly.

The adjutant hesitated, glancing nervously at him before replying.

“Yes, it seems that way.”

What do you mean, “it seems that way”?

They were all dead.

The commander thought grimly to himself.

So, what now? Should they try to strike the enemy’s rear?

What would happen if they did?

Would the enemy thrash around like a horse with its tail on fire?

He found himself curious about how Naurillia would react.

Just as he made up his mind, a shout rang out.

“A signal fire has been lit!”

A sharp-eyed messenger came running toward them, gasping for breath. He had just crossed the ridge.

The commander’s gaze turned to the direction of the main force, where the signal fire had been raised.

A signal fire was only lit in one situation—when the main force was in danger.

And if the signal fire had been lit now, it could mean only one thing.

“We’re going back.”

The commander didn’t hesitate. It was the only move to make.

Thanks to their swift return to the main force, they avoided total annihilation.

***

After rejoining Marcus’s infantry division, Enkrid spoke less than usual.

The soldiers cast curious glances at the Mad Platoon, but no one dared approach them easily.

“You’re here?”

Venzance was the only one who bothered to say anything, throwing out a casual remark.

Enkrid simply nodded and walked on. As he moved, his thoughts turned inward, and he reflected on the battles they had fought.

“I couldn’t fully utilize the Sense of Evasion.”

The Heart of Might required extensive preparation to unleash, and while he had pieced together everything he had, it had been far from perfect.

“Plant the left hand on the opponent’s head, then slash with the right.”

The foundation of his moves had been a mix of feints and the Heart of Might.

The fight had been thrilling in its own way. Some aspects of his dual-sword technique had proven effective.

But what about next time?

That led him to replay the battle in his mind. Was there nothing to learn from a fight he had won? Absolutely not. There was always something to learn.

Crunch, crunch.

The unit marched across a gravel field, heading toward the rear of the main force.

The march continued uninterrupted.

Three days passed in a cycle of eating, walking, and sleeping. Finally, the forward encampment of their allied forces came into view.

Of course, Enkrid paid little attention to whether or not they reached the camp.

He was too busy reviewing and re-reviewing the battle in his head. He neither saw nor heard what was happening around him.

“The basics.”

What about the swordsman with the mustache? His techniques had been basic but masterful—sharp and precise, heavy and agile.

They shifted appropriately when needed, adapting perfectly to the situation.

It all came down to the basics.

Was winning or losing the only thing that mattered?

Of course, losing could mean death in this kind of battle.

But there was no meaning in intentionally losing a fight you could win.

Always do your best.

Stand firm, even if it’s only half a step forward.

For a better tomorrow.

Winning didn’t erase the yearning or thirst for improvement.

Had he thought mastering the basics once was enough?

“Was I getting arrogant?”

Reflecting on his younger days, where survival was his only concern, he realized how absurd such thoughts were.

Grinding and honing the basics was an unshakable principle.

Take the Isolation Technique, for instance.

Every day, the same movements, repeated endlessly.

Whether it was the Balraf Method of Martial Arts, heavy sword techniques, or light sword techniques.

Precision and mastery of the basics. Again and again.

The realization filled him with an uncontrollable urge. His hands itched, his heart raced, and his skin tingled.

Even in the middle of their march.

Shiiing.

Enkrid drew his sword. He began to move, cutting through the air with clean, vertical slashes that resembled a masterpiece crafted by a swordmaster.

It was a downward strike aimed at perfection, like the mustached swordsman’s precise overhead cuts.

Swoosh.

Without breaking stride, he swung his sword mid-walk.

It was the kind of thing that could draw comments, but this was Enkrid they were talking about.

“What’s going on? An ambush? Oh, it’s Enkrid, the platoon leader.”

“That guy’s a bit... off, isn’t he?”

A soldier twirled his finger next to his ear, implying madness.

“Mad Platoon leader, right?”

“Yeah, just keep walking.”

The soldiers dismissed it casually.

After all, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

More importantly, everyone knew about the Mad Platoon’s exploits in the previous battle.

Their reputation had elevated them to near-heroic status.

Some soldiers even regarded them with admiration.

“He fights so well because he’s obsessed with training, right?”

Such thoughts lingered in the soldiers’ minds.

The other platoon leaders and officers didn’t interfere either. After all, they had likely received specific instructions from Marcus, the battalion commander.

It was obvious they were being treated as something special.

Exempt from guard duty, cooking duty, and most other mundane tasks.

The soldiers simply let it slide, and the members of the Mad Platoon paid no attention to the glances they received.

Ragna, watching his platoon leader suddenly swinging his sword, thought about the advice he had planned to give him.

It seemed unnecessary now.

“Focus on mastering the basics again.”

Even after demonstrating Severance, he hadn’t even begun teaching properly.

There were many things left to build on, and much to explain.

Would he become a wall of despair or a new milestone?

Ragna mulled over how to guide Enkrid and decided he needed to remind him of often-overlooked lessons.

He stopped walking as the gravel field came to an end.

“Yes, that’s right,” he muttered.

His platoon leader didn’t need nagging. He would reflect on his shortcomings and address them on his own. That’s just the kind of person he was.

Ragna felt a spark of determination ignite in his chest.

It seemed ridiculous, but watching his platoon leader made him want to wield his sword.

“What’s up with you?”

Rem, the wild barbarian, cocked his head and asked.

“Hah, praying alone? Did your god answer?”

Audin, the burly cleric, joined in with a chuckle.

Ragna ignored them, not wanting to ruin his good mood.

But Rem was persistent, and Audin was dutiful.

“Hey, what’s going on? Got ghosts in your head? Hey, big guy, shouldn’t you exorcise him or something? Got a ghost-punch ready?”

“Hah, brother, possession doesn’t happen so easily, especially in a disciplined unit like this. I think he’s been praying. So, what did the Lord say?”

Ragna wished they would go away.

The wish quickly turned into murderous intent.

“Should I just cut them down?”

Rem and Audin both immediately sensed the shift in his aura.

“Hey, need help putting that head down here?”

“Brother, are you upset because you didn’t get an answer from your prayer? Sweating it out might help.”

When murderous intent flared, fights followed. It was practically a rule for the Mad Platoon.

Of course, if Enkrid intervened, it would stop—but Enkrid was lost in his own world.

Clang!

Ragna unsheathed his sword and swung.

Rem responded immediately.

Clang!

Axe met sword, sparks flying as tension crackled between them.

Audin couldn’t stay out of it. Ragna redirected his momentum, striking Audin’s chest.

Audin deflected the blade with his palm in an advanced display of skill, stepping back as he did.

The three of them clashed naturally, each demonstrating movements so fluid it was almost miraculous.

Meanwhile, Jaxon watched from the side, shaking his head.

“Idiots, all of them.”

His gaze drifted from the fighting trio to his platoon leader.

He had a few complaints of his own.

Why was Enkrid slower to master the Sense of Evasion compared to the Heart of Might?

Was he giving less effort to Jaxon’s techniques?

“Annoying,” Jaxon muttered, but no one answered.

The three continued their skirmish.

Andrew and Mack quietly moved away, not wanting to get involved, while Finn questioned whether this platoon could really function.

Only Kraiss seemed unfazed, carrying out his duties.

Kraiss carried out his orders calmly, having received them directly from the Faerie Company’s captain in place of their platoon leader.

“Why you?”

The company captain showed mild dissatisfaction.

“Because if you bother him now, the platoon leader will hate it, the platoon members will hate it, and it’ll just devolve into chaos.”

“More than now?”

Enkrid was walking while swinging his sword, the three were brawling nearby, and Jaxon wore his characteristic deadpan expression. The captain glanced at the scene, visibly unimpressed.

“Yes, even more than now,” Kraiss said confidently.

Trying to stop them would only make things worse—that was something he knew from experience.

“Fair enough. The main force is returning to the city.”

The company captain didn’t bother with any unnecessary remarks or jokes, sticking to the point.

Kraiss, feeling slightly playful, asked, “You’re interested in our platoon leader, aren’t you?”

The captain turned to look at Kraiss. Their emerald green eyes, so otherworldly in their beauty, sparkled like gemstones.

But that same beauty made their gaze feel cold and inorganic, impossible for Kraiss to read.

Still, his instincts told him something.

“Of course, I am.”

It wasn’t a desire born from admiration as a man, but something else entirely.

With that, the captain turned and left. Kraiss shivered and rubbed his arms as if trying to brush off the chills.

He then turned his attention to his platoon leader, wondering when he’d snap out of it.

It was nearly the end of the day when Enkrid finally stopped, just as the platoon was setting up camp for the night.

Kraiss wondered if walking while swinging a sword really helped anything.

Meanwhile, the brawl between the three—Rem, Audin, and Ragna—wrapped up surprisingly quickly.

Perhaps they all knew it wouldn’t go anywhere, or maybe it wasn’t as fun without the platoon leader stepping in.

Who knew? Kraiss didn’t care to figure it out.

“Commander.”

Enkrid, drenched in sweat, turned his gaze toward Kraiss.

“The order is to return to the city.”

“Hm?”

Kraiss knew his commander wasn’t one for long explanations. Even though he wanted to provide all the details, he resisted the urge.

For now, simplicity was best.

“When our operation worked—when the enemy redirected some of their forces to the flank—the main force launched an assault.”

The operation had been Kraiss’s idea from the beginning.

The plan involved the Mad Platoon striking the enemy’s rear, luring out Hawk Talon’s unit and dealing with them. Meanwhile, Marcus’s battalion would feign an attack on Cross Guard—just enough to look convincing.

“It was already a losing battle.”

If Kraiss were the enemy commander, would he have been able to stomach the humiliation of a city under attack?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Either way, the plan worked in their favor with minimal risk.

Kraiss’s primary goal had been securing safety, and the results aligned with that.

He hadn’t expected everything to go so smoothly, especially with the Mad Platoon’s sheer effectiveness.

“I knew they were good, but...”

He hadn’t realized just how exceptional they were. As a small elite unit, they might even surpass the so-called Butchers of the Borderlands.

After reuniting with Marcus’s battalion, some of the forces stationed at Green Pearl Plains—including the knights—advanced further.

This was another unexpected turn for Kraiss.

“They actually pushed forward?”

As it stood, they had already expanded their territory and delivered a critical blow to Azpen. But instead of stopping, they seized the opportunity to press the advantage, delivering a decisive strike.

The result?

A crushing victory, with the enemy forces in shambles.

With such a wide margin of victory, Marcus’s battalion and the Border Guard reserves received orders to return to the city.

It made sense. If the enemy tried something desperate and attacked the city, there needed to be troops to defend it.

Besides, honoring a distinguished unit with some rest was only natural.

Rather than explaining all of this, Kraiss kept it short.

“We’re going home.”

“Not bad.”

Did Enkrid, their platoon leader, fully understand what had transpired?

Kraiss didn’t know. He’d explain it all later. For now, the only thing that mattered was that they were heading back.

Kraiss found satisfaction in that.

Most of all, he felt a warm comfort from the map tucked inside his vest—a treasure taken from the enemy.

He instinctively knew, “This one’s real.”

Enkrid had no objections to returning either.

On the contrary, he was pleased.

This battlefield had taught him much, and he wanted time to process and engrain those lessons.

For someone like him, there was no other way. The path to improvement was relentless effort.

Desire and thirst.

Those feelings burned within him, making it impossible to remain idle.

“But that guy...”

Enkrid glanced toward Jaxon, sensing the faint aura of irritation coming from him.

Jaxon’s occasional sharp looks hinted at unspoken grievances. But even if Enkrid asked, he doubted Jaxon would answer.

What could he do?

Nothing. These complaints were nothing new.

“Heading back already? Disappointed you didn’t get to see more knightly battles?”

Rem’s teasing voice broke through, and Enkrid nodded slightly.

“A little, yeah.”

At the same time, it didn’t bother him much.

Crunch.

As they walked, Enkrid glanced at his hands.

Calloused palms, the weight of the two swords hanging from his hips, and the feel of his armor pressing against his body.

Nyaa—

The panther, back at his side without him noticing, walked alongside the platoon.

Enkrid was walking too.

And when you’re certain of the path you’re on, there’s no need to confirm your destination.

“Not bad.”

Enkrid replied, lifting his gaze. Spring’s energy filled the air, and the gentle sunlight draped warmly over his shoulders.