Behind the platform, amidst the tall trees, petals in shades of red and pink danced in the wind.

From the flower fields behind the training grounds, yellow blossoms revealed their bright, vivid selves.

The smell of sweat filled the air, and in a place where spears and swords clashed, flowerbeds seemed out of place.

It was said this flowerbed was a remnant of when the Border Guard was still a bustling trade city.

Even after those days, maintaining the flowerbed became the responsibility of the battalion commander who oversaw the city.

It served as a symbol of peace and safety for the city, or so they said.

Winter had passed, and spring had come.

Perhaps these flowers were a sight not seen in a long time.

“These flowers represent the safety of this city.”

A florist had once said such words.

Several florists within the city were responsible for maintaining the flowerbeds of the Border Guard.

Looking at the flowers brought thoughts to mind.

Releasing tension from one’s shoulders was also important.

Not too rigid.

Relaxed, but not slackened.

Though it didn’t suit him, perhaps there were times when admiring flowers with a lighter demeanor was necessary.

As he loosened the tension in his shoulders, he noticed how the petals resembled blades, standing straight and sharp.

What was the name of that flower?

A red petal, pointed and slender. He remembered the nickname clearly.

"Sword Flower."

A flower known for its response to the magical energy of spring.

Looking at the petals of the Sword Flower, a thought crossed his mind: "How can I make my vertical strikes cleaner?"

With that question, a journey to find the answer began in his head.

That mustached man.

A man who had walked a completely different path from his own.

There was a refinement in his swordsmanship that even Ragna’s blade couldn’t match.

A sword built through both talent and relentless effort.

He had felt it, like a sensation on his skin.

He wanted it. He wanted to possess it, to make it his own, to swallow it whole and digest it.

Even now, he craved it. He thirsted for it.

To him, it was like water to a traveler in the desert.

For Enkrid, it was the sword, knighthood, dreams, and skill.

"Slowly."

If you run in haste, you’re bound to trip and fall.

Besides, had anything ever gone well by rushing?

Even without talent, as long as one didn’t despair or give up, there were things one could see.

That was patience, not complacency.

The middle ground between opposing paces.

Relaxed but not slackened.

That was how he could run at his fastest pace, even if it wasn’t as quick as others.

With such thoughts swirling, Enkrid moved toward the platform.

At the end of those thoughts was the platform.

Standing there was Marcus.

They stood face to face, their gazes meeting.

Marcus’s eyes curved gently, a playful glint in them as though he found the situation amusing.

The training grounds were silent.

How to describe it?

The atmosphere was different.

Warm sunlight filtered through, accompanied by a gentle breeze that swayed the flower petals.

It was a peaceful and serene afternoon.

It reminded him of the divine warmth that had enveloped him when Audin’s sacred energy touched his body.

That same tranquility now surrounded him.

“I’ve been thinking.”

Marcus’s voice broke the silence.

It wasn’t loud enough to reach every corner of the training grounds, but those nearby could hear it clearly.

“About what to give you?”

Standing upright, Enkrid answered.

“What would satisfy a soldier who has achieved so much?”

At Marcus’s words, various images crossed Enkrid’s mind—perhaps a fine sword or a pouch of krona.

But would that truly satisfy him?

Certainly not.

It might bring some temporary joy.

But beyond that?

"A magical suit of armor?"

He now roughly understood the value of the leather armor he currently wore. Its worth was slowly diminishing, after all.

Magical enchantments weren’t eternal.

Magical equipment had its limits, or so he had heard.

It was something he had overheard in passing, and at the time, he wasn’t sure if it was true.

But through experience, he had seen proof.

The leather armor’s lifespan was nearing its end.

The leather gauntlets were likely enchanted in some way too. Otherwise, how could they possess such durability?

Without them, during his fight with Frokk, it wouldn’t just have been his wrist that gave out—he might have lost his hand entirely.

"That’s a horrifying thought."

Losing a wrist and dying would have been bad enough, but living as a one-armed swordsman?

Losing a wrist might be better than losing an entire arm, but both were still terrible fates.

Looking back, there was no shortage of things he needed to be cautious about.

Losing his life? While painful, it might almost be welcome.

But to sustain a grievous wound and have to continue on, burdened by it?

"There’s a lot to think about."

That said, Enkrid didn’t dwell on such thoughts.

He wasn’t the type to overthink, and he didn’t have the luxury to, either.

"Distractions."

They were more than just a release of tension—they were obstacles.

He pushed them aside. There wasn’t enough time to fully immerse himself in his sword and his dream.

Could he truly become a knight?

It remained a lingering question, unanswered.

“So, I’ve made a decision.”

Marcus continued. Enkrid focused on his words.

To listen earnestly, to give his full attention—that was Enkrid’s way.

“I must give you something truly meaningful. Something sincere. You won’t be disappointed, platoon leader.”

Marcus spoke of expectations, but Enkrid, knowing himself well, felt none.

In the end, Marcus handed him a pouch of krona and a finely crafted dagger.

A dagger said to be awarded only to those who had rendered significant service to the royal family.

Holding it, Enkrid quickly realized its lack of practical use.

It was decorative, unbalanced, a mere symbol of status.

“By presenting you with the royal dagger, your status is guaranteed. Should you ever display this in the capital, you will be treated as a guest of the royal family.”

To Enkrid, it felt like little more than a token.

He meant that sincerely.

But for the soldiers below the platform, their thoughts were different.

“...Enkrid.”

“Enkrid.”

“Enkrid.”

No one shouted cheers or called out in triumphant roars.

Instead, all the soldiers softly murmured his name.

Hundreds of soldiers, unified in their voices.

“Enkrid.”

The sound, though quiet, struck like a resounding chorus.

“Ha! It seems they’re happier than you are. Turn around and see.”

At Marcus’s words, Enkrid turned to look.

It was an amusing sight.

Ten days after returning to the city from the battlefield.

It seemed he had grown closer to the soldiers in the unit.

Those who once sneered and insulted him now bowed their heads.

Those seeing him for the first time gazed with respect and reverence.

The acknowledgment he had earned on the battlefield had carried over into this moment.

At that time, the battalion commander had called for cheers of triumph.

But who were those cheers for?

He had thought it a pleasant experience then.

This, however, was different.

The platform was high, just tall enough for one person.

From it, he could look down at all the soldiers.

He could feel the heat emanating from them.

That collective energy, as if it took form, wrapped around him.

He realized now that the recognition of his efforts had created this moment.

"What makes a knight?"

Skill? Merely wielding a blade well did not make one a knight.

"If that’s all you wanted, you should’ve stuck to being a mercenary."

The words of a fencing instructor from some city still lingered in his mind.

Back then, he had asked.

What makes a knight?

What qualifies one to be called a knight?

“Skill is a given.”

It was skill built atop honor and merit that defined a knight.

“Times may have changed, but in the past, throughout history, legends have always been like that.”

Did he simply want to be a good swordsman?

No, that wasn’t it. His childhood dream had begun that way, but…

Growing older, realizing the limits of his talent, being wounded by someone much younger, losing comrades, and understanding that skill and character didn’t always align—

Even knowing his limits, he had continued to swing his sword.

With a single-minded determination, as if every moment was his last.

As if living in a present with no tomorrow.

Amid the endless waves of time, he had thrown himself forward.

Even as the waves engulfed him, he had never forgotten his sword. He had held onto his tattered dreams.

Through all that time, what had sustained Enkrid?

A knight was someone who adhered to their own standards.

That’s what he believed.

Someone who pressed forward without losing their honor.

That’s who he had decided to be.

Perhaps that was why this moment felt so rewarding.

Standing before them, proving himself.

Feeling the honor.

“It’s amusing.”

Enkrid murmured quietly, his voice devoid of discernible emotion.

Behind him, Marcus detected something unusual in Enkrid's words—a faint, unfamiliar spark.

It was something long forgotten, like the glow of a sword catching the light.

"Is this... passion?"

Marcus smiled, thinking how truly fascinating this man was.

He wondered how the gift he had prepared for this man would affect him.

"That is all."

Marcus concluded, and Enkrid turned to offer a crisp salute.

"Enkrid."

The murmured chant of his name followed him as he descended from the platform. The soldiers parted to create a path for him, their respect palpable.

"Lucky bastard."

His squad greeted him with familiar ease.

Rem grinned widely, his expression as irreverent as ever.

Jaxon leaned lazily on one leg, observing without a word.

"You seemed like a divine messenger responding to prayers, brother," Audin said cryptically.

"Can we go now?"

Ragna, ever uninterested in ceremonies, asked with evident boredom.

"Not bad."

Kraiss, who clearly didn’t care much for the reward itself, added offhandedly.

Nearby, Andrew and Mack called out to him excitedly.

"Enkrid!"

"Commander!"

It wasn’t bad—no, it was more than that. If this didn’t feel satisfying, it would have been strange.

"Let’s head back."

Nothing had changed.

Ten days after their return to the Border Guard, life had been quiet.

With the award ceremony over, there was only one thing to do.

Training.

He was already contemplating how to improve his sword strikes.

"Hey, today’s a party! Let’s eat and drink ourselves to death!"

Marcus, still on the platform, shouted with a gusto that left no room for argument.

Was this really how a battalion commander should behave? Weren’t those noble guests watching from the back?

Sure enough, Enkrid turned to see a group of nobles frowning in disapproval.

Yet, strangely, none of them dared to object openly.

"What’s going on?"

Did Marcus threaten to behead anyone who spoke up?

"No, that’s something Rem would do."

Marcus was a commander from the capital.

He had no reason or need to act recklessly.

So why were the nobles reacting this way?

Enkrid decided not to concern himself with the politics of the nobles.

"Party!"

"Woohoo!"

"Sounds good! I’m in!"

The soldiers roared their approval, their cheers deafening.

"What, are they actually going to bring out something good? If all we get is cheap wine, I might just split that bastard’s head open with my axe," Rem muttered with a mischievous grin.

This guy seemed oddly cheerful.

The problem was that his good moods often led to violent impulses.

"Maybe I should be grateful it’s not my head he’s thinking of splitting."

Come to think of it, Rem had never seriously threatened to crack his skull open—at least not in earnest.

Sometimes he’d joke about wanting to split it to see what was inside, but that was different.

"Annoying."

Ragna voiced his honest feelings, and Enkrid silently agreed.

He wanted to train.

All he cared about was absorbing the mustached man’s swordsmanship as quickly as possible.

"A stiff head only sees stiff things. Sometimes, you need to rest to truly grow."

Jaxon, ever perceptive, chimed in as if reading his thoughts.

"Rest well, everyone. I’ll be back later."

Kraiss’s voice echoed from behind as it faded into the distance—he was already running off.

When there was a party, there was always gambling.

That was Kraiss’s domain.

Not that he participated in gambling himself—his goal was to oversee the games and take a cut of the proceeds.

He still couldn’t understand why people threw away their krona on luck.

"Why bet on random cards? And if you run into a real gambler, luck won’t save you—they’ll clean you out."

Kraiss disappeared into the crowd of soldiers, leaving Enkrid staring after him.

It felt odd that this wide-eyed strategist had come up with such brilliant tactics.

"At least no one’s splitting heads, barbarian brother."

Audin’s murmur came from behind.

Ahead, Marcus could be seen raising a bottle of liquor high in the air.

"This is good stuff! Tonight, everyone drinks the same! Objections? Step forward if you have any!"

"This guy isn’t normal either."

Marcus hollered, encouraging everyone to drink as if it were a command.

While watching, Finn approached Enkrid.

"Care for a drink?"

"Hmm?"

It had been a while since he’d touched alcohol.

He hadn’t had the time. Training demanded precision, and drinking dulled the senses. That meant no proper training.

Enjoying the party and drinking were separate matters.

He was about to politely decline when—

"No, human girl. That’s my spot. She’s my fiancée."

A voice came from behind.

"…Fiancée? She’s an elf."

Finn muttered, puzzled. Enkrid took a step back.

The elven company commander approached silently.

"Drink with me."

Was that an order or an invitation?

As Finn and the elf commander squared off, a strange tension filled the air.

"Kyaa."

Suddenly, Esther jumped into the mix, slipping into Enkrid’s arms with a fierce growl.

What was this situation?

"…Damn charm."

Rem muttered under his breath as he watched.

Before Enkrid could protest, the soldiers surrounding them burst into cheers—though this time, it was different.

"The charming platoon leader!"

Damn it. Just when he thought they’d forgotten, the nickname resurfaced.