Ten days had passed since the return to the city.

On this day, flowers began to bloom even within the Border Guard. It was spring in full force.

During that time, it had rained once.

Reports of victories kept coming in, along with news that the battlefield was finally being cleared.

Eventually, word spread that the Duchy of Azpen had requested peace.

Naurillia had seized a portion of the Duchy’s territory, claiming the Green Pearl Plains.

The land, though barren for now, would require significant effort to cultivate.

Nevertheless, a victory was a victory—a decisive one, at that.

Cheers echoed at the end of the battlefield.

As spring arrived, people became intoxicated by its energy.

In these jubilant days, filled with anticipation and excitement, Enkrid’s last ten days were unchanged.

Nothing had shifted for him, nor did he see a need for it to.

The swing of his sword cut through the air.

“Brother, you’re not done yet. Hold your posture, sit up straight, keep your back straight. Inhale deeply and feel the pressure in your abdomen. If the pressure weakens, your back will snap.”

Audin’s booming laughter followed his instructions.

One of Enkrid’s routines included strengthening his body by performing squats with Audin perched on his back—a feat that seemed more like a circus act than training.

Swords, training, sparring.

These three consumed his time entirely.

No matter how others celebrated or reveled, Enkrid remained unconcerned.

While Kraiss flitted about here and there, Enkrid had no such obligations.

As the platoon leader of an independent unit and given their exemplary performance in the last battle, he was exempt from all duties.

These ten days were pure rest—at least for most.

For Enkrid, they were ten days of devoted training.

However, one thing had changed.

“Hah!”

Among the soldiers in the nearby divisions—those who knew him or had fought alongside him—there was a noticeable shift in attitude.

From early morning, they had taken to practicing with spears, throwing themselves into training with unrelenting focus.

What had once been a sporadic trend had grown into a fervent commitment to training.

The soldiers, drenched in sweat, swung their spears and built their strength with genuine resolve.

And then, a more surprising change occurred.

“Excuse me, could I ask for your guidance?”

Some of the soldiers began approaching Enkrid directly.

“Me?”

Enkrid was in the middle of a break, having paused his relentless sword swings, when he pointed at himself and asked in disbelief.

It was understandable.

This was something he had never imagined—a soldier asking him for guidance?

The life Enkrid had led left no room for such notions.

All he had known was learning, practicing, and pressing forward.

Especially teaching others—was there any word less fitting for him?

“Give it a shot.”

Rem, who had been watching lazily from the side, chimed in. Despite seeming half-asleep, he had been paying attention.

Enkrid nodded.

He had been considering it anyway.

The soldier standing before him, gazing at him with earnest eyes, had sparked something.

That look of desperation—it mirrored the longing and thirst burning within Enkrid himself.

Ting.

Enkrid lightly tapped the soldier’s spear with his sword.

The soldier flinched, his shoulders jerking involuntarily.

How skilled was he?

Recalling what he had learned from Audin, Enkrid gauged the soldier’s posture and the state of his body.

He seemed to be reasonably trained.

“Private Paul, sir.”

The soldier introduced himself.

Enkrid heard the name but let it pass through one ear and out the other.

His focus was entirely on observing his opponent.

Concentrating fully was all he could do—it was the best he had to offer.

Paul swallowed hard and assumed a stance.

Left hand forward, right hand back.

His posture, specialized for thrusting, placed one foot forward and one back. With a loud “Ha!”, he lunged with his spear.

Whoosh.

His form was solid. He was a well-trained soldier.

Enkrid carefully observed the spear’s trajectory and moved accordingly.

Seeing and reacting allowed his body to follow. Even though he hadn’t fully mastered it, his movements flowed naturally, thanks to the Sense of Evasion.

Twisting his body to the side to dodge, he extended his left arm, guiding his palm upward to grip the shaft of the spear.

“Ack!”

The soldier reflexively tried to pull the spear back.

The veins bulging in his neck showed that he was putting all his strength into it.

Pivoting on his left foot, Enkrid turned his body and rotated inward along the spear’s shaft.

In one smooth motion, he pulled the spear toward him while anchoring himself firmly. The move didn’t require the Heart of Might—just proper technique and decent strength.

Tap.

With a light touch, Enkrid brought his sword down from above, tapping the soldier on the head.

It wasn’t the blade but the flat of the sword.

The soldier froze as the weight of the blade rested lightly on his hair.

“Ah.”

“Seems like it’s over.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Enkrid released the spear, and the soldier awkwardly gathered his weapon and stood, visibly embarrassed.

“So, uh... what am I lacking?”

It was a mark of a seasoned soldier to ask such a question.

It meant he had some confidence in his abilities but still sought improvement.

For Enkrid, this was unfamiliar territory.

In his earlier days, back when the Mad Platoon was nothing but a group of misfits, he had been the subject of ridicule.

Yet now, someone was earnestly seeking his advice.

Looking closer, the soldier’s face wasn’t unfamiliar.

They had crossed paths before, during various battles. The soldier wore the insignia of a squad leader.

What was this about?

Enkrid stared at him, puzzled.

The soldier endured the awkward silence, waiting patiently. Once again, Enkrid noticed the desperation in his eyes—the same longing and thirst that mirrored his own.

He couldn’t ignore it.

To be honest, even after just one sparring session, he already saw what the soldier needed.

“You should build more strength.”

Spears, being heavier weapons, demanded greater physical power. For now, Paul lacked sufficient strength.

“Ah, understood. Thank you, sir.”

The squad leader saluted, and Enkrid nodded in acknowledgment.

Afterward, the squad leader devoted himself to strength training, lifting heavier weights and focusing entirely on building his physical power.

His subordinates followed suit, sparking a wave of strength training and physical conditioning throughout the unit.

The training fever spread rapidly throughout the unit.

This was a force that had just returned from the battlefield. Shouldn’t they have been celebrating their victory?

Many soldiers certainly did. Some ventured into the city to revel, while others spent their days in the barracks drinking themselves into oblivion.

Among them were those who believed that a night in the red-light district was a better use of their time than preparing for tomorrow.

Enkrid didn’t criticize them.

What did their actions have to do with him?

He was just a platoon leader—a leader of an independent unit.

For now, he wasn’t even in a position to step onto a battlefield where junior knights were the primary combatants.

And to be honest, he couldn’t say he wasn’t curious about watching their battles.

Still, he thought, his approach remained the same.

When the path ahead is clear, there’s no need to concern yourself with unnecessary detours.

If it had been a fight involving someone like Lord Cypress, things might have been different.

What if it were a true knight—one whose name was known across the entire continent?

He might have been eager to watch, but who could say?

Some things can only be understood when they happen.

“Is it fun?”

Rem, who had been silently observing, asked with a mischievous grin instead of his usual laughter.

Fun? Enkrid didn’t really know what that was.

“I’m not sure.”

As always, his answer was sincere.

Rem finally let out a laugh and moved away, leaving Enkrid to immerse himself in training once more.

In that focused state...

“Excuse me, could I give it a try?”

Another soldier approached him with a request for sparring.

Enkrid obliged, quickly knocking the soldier down before offering a simple piece of advice.

“Your footwork is too rigid.”

Later, another soldier stepped forward, seeking his guidance.

“You should relax your shoulders.”

Again, Enkrid sparred and provided a brief comment.

After several such sessions...

“Do you think I... could improve?”

Some of the requests were vague, with no clear subject, but the intent was unmistakable.

Eyes filled with determination, their questions carried a mix of tension and earnestness.

The latest soldier to approach Enkrid had a youthful face, likely around Andrew’s age—maybe even younger.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

None of the platoon members stepped in to stop the interaction.

Hadn’t they always complained about people approaching him in the past? Hadn’t they stirred up unnecessary trouble for those seeking his guidance?

Why they allowed it now was a mystery.

Most soldiers carried spears as their weapon of choice.

But wielding something unusual could signal belonging to a specialized unit.

The soldier before him carried a one-handed war hammer, roughly the length of a forearm. The head of the hammer was rounded and polished, clearly a well-used weapon.

It didn’t look particularly heavy, but it was undoubtedly efficient.

The soldier rotated his wrist, demonstrating a practiced familiarity with his weapon.

“I’m with the Border Guard.”

As expected, the soldier introduced himself, and Enkrid nodded absentmindedly.

Whirrr—

The hammer spun smoothly in the soldier’s hand as his eyes lit up with anticipation.

Enkrid, however, saw through his movements immediately.

Perhaps it was his experience with the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship, but the soldier’s intentions were glaringly obvious.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The soldier swung his hammer with full force, gripping it one-handed before slamming it vertically downward.

Blocking wasn’t the best choice—dodging was better.

Stepping sideways to evade the hammer’s trajectory, Enkrid noticed the soldier’s opposite hand reaching toward his waist.

Before the soldier’s elbow could even fully extend, Enkrid grabbed his wrist.

“I can see it.”

He spoke plainly, his tone devoid of mockery or hostility.

The maneuver was simple and direct.

The hammer served as a distraction, setting up a short-range dagger throw.

It was similar to Valen-style mercenary techniques.

“Valen-style swordsmanship?”

Enkrid asked, and the soldier nodded.

“You’d do well to refine your hammer techniques further.”

Instinctively, Enkrid pointed out the soldier’s weaknesses.

And in doing so, he realized something:

That same advice applied to him.

Improving his hammer skills would help conceal his dagger throws even better. From the start, such misdirection wouldn’t draw attention.

The soldier’s potential was evident.

It reminded Enkrid of a particular incident—a young boy who had once left a gaping wound in his abdomen.

Back then, he’d collapsed without even putting up proper resistance.

But now?

A lesson from one of his instructors came to mind:

“Improvement starts with understanding where you stand.”

Awareness.

Once again, awareness.

To tread a new path, one must first understand the ground they stand on.

Sparring after sparring, lesson after lesson.

More and more soldiers sought him out, and each time, Enkrid learned something new and moved forward.

Slow, deliberate steps.

There was no rush. That realization came while sparring with a soldier whose thrusts were overly hurried.

Haste provided no benefit.

Conversely, some soldiers displayed calm, measured movements that stood out.

“The name’s Ruth.”

One soldier introduced himself, a member of the Border Guard hailing from the western regions.

Glancing briefly at Rem, Ruth seemed to expect a reaction, but Rem appeared utterly indifferent.

Ruth, too, was subdued with ease. An easy opponent? Not at all. He was a tricky adversary. However, Enkrid’s experiences had been so intense and profound that handling such an opponent posed no real challenge.

“You’re strong.”

Ruth voiced his admiration before turning away.

As he walked off, his gaze lingered not on Rem but solely on Enkrid.

As more and more soldiers sought Enkrid out over the ten days, Kraiss began organizing the influx.

“There are too many. You should filter them and only let in a few. You know what happens when our commander’s work gets disrupted, don’t you?”

Kraiss’s words carried newfound weight.

Behind him stood Rem, Jaxon, Audin, and Ragna.

The four of them, meanwhile, silently nodded as they watched their platoon leader.

Awareness—what must one do to see where they stand?

You must look up, down, left, and right.

Only then will your position come into focus.

At some point, they had all crossed that threshold themselves.

In fact, Enkrid was late in reaching this moment.

Spring had come, and at thirty-one, by the continent’s standards, he was already an aging mercenary.

Sure, there were plenty who wielded swords well into their forties, but no one had done it quite like Enkrid.

And so, observing him brought a sense of satisfaction.

Audin found the answers to his prayers in his platoon leader.

Rem revisited fragments of his past.

Jaxon, contemplating the path Enkrid walked, envisioned his own future.

Ragna, reflecting on swords, people, ambition, and the strength knights wield, reached a new understanding.

He, too, had stepped onto this path.

And he would continue to walk it.

That certainty, deeper than ever, led him to realize the value their platoon leader held for him.

A late-blooming genius.

Such a title fit Enkrid perfectly.

Of course, inspiring change in the surrounding soldiers had less to do with genius and more with his sheer presence.

For the soldiers, especially those unwilling to remain stagnant and who aspired to a better tomorrow, Enkrid became a symbol of transformation.

He became someone they wanted to emulate.

A figure of admiration.

And all of this culminated when the time came for the recognition of merit.

“Everyone, fall in line!”

The ceremony to recognize merit and reward achievements began.

The entire training ground was filled with soldiers. All troops, except those on active duty, were present.

It was time to determine who had contributed most to the recent victories on the battlefield.

And everyone already knew who the protagonist of this event would be.

Marcus, standing on the platform, was unlike his predecessor.

With a few nobles seated in the back as spectators, Marcus stepped forward and began his speech.

“Who contributed the most to our recent battles? If you need me to spell it out for you, then your brain isn’t even fit to hold up a helmet.”

His booming voice resonated across the field, commanding the attention of every soldier.

It was rough and full of coarse words, unrefined in tone.

Some of the nobles in the back frowned at Marcus’s lack of decorum.

Wasn’t this unbefitting of a leader?

However, the soldiers, the true recipients of Marcus’s words, heard them differently.

The sincerity in his voice couldn’t be denied.

Marcus, having made up his mind, spoke from the heart.

“I will now call forward the soldier with the greatest merit. The leader of the… no, the independent platoon—Enkrid.”

Everyone knew what Marcus meant to say after “the…” but he corrected himself.

And as the soldiers watched, someone walked up toward the platform.

Drenched in sweat, a man appeared, walking empty-handed.

Though the temperature had begun to rise with the advent of spring, it wasn’t hot enough to explain the sweat dripping from him.

Yet, no one questioned it.

Everyone knew the reason—he had undoubtedly been swinging his sword tirelessly before coming here.

Because that’s the kind of man Enkrid was.

A man who proved himself through the swing of his blade.

A man who demonstrated his worth by pouring everything he had into his craft.

The embodiment of sincerity and dedication.

As Enkrid, the infamous leader of the Mad Platoon, stepped onto the platform, the training ground fell silent.

A strange hush settled over the crowd, and within that silence, an intensity seemed to rise.

For those who had witnessed the battlefield firsthand, what kind of figure was Enkrid to them?

To some, he was an idol.

To others, a hero.

On the battlefield, he had undoubtedly been both.

Marcus hadn’t forgotten that.

Now, atop the platform, two men stood facing each other.