It was early morning.

The time when the end of dawn met the beginning of day.

The training grounds on one side of the parade square were bathed in an orange hue as the sun began to rise.

How many people would be out on the training grounds at this hour?

Other than the night watch on patrol, Enkrid would likely be the only one.

Thus, encountering someone on the training grounds before himself at such an hour was a rare occurrence.

No, this might be the first time.

Enkrid placed his right hand on his waist and saluted, thinking about the unusual sight.

It was only fitting.

The individual before him had hosted last night’s banquet and was currently the commander responsible for the city of Border Guard.

A nod.

Battalion Commander Marcus acknowledged the salute with a nod.

Marcus wasn’t alone. He rarely was. Two others stood behind him, hidden in the shadows at the edge of the training grounds.

One of them, Frokk, stepped forward.

It was difficult to discern all of Frokk's features with human eyes.

But at least Enkrid could tell that this Frokk was different from any he’d encountered before.

No scars on his neck.

No ferocious glare.

Instead, his gaze carried curiosity, and his round cheeks puffed out slightly.

Kurrrk.

Frokk made his characteristic noise, his large eyes scanning Enkrid from head to toe.

From the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

Then back up, stopping at his face.

The precision with which Frokk revealed his focus was almost a skill in itself.

“I believe introductions are in order,” Marcus said from behind, his voice cutting through the moment.

It was a timely suggestion.

Frokk stopped his guttural noises and opened his mouth to speak.

“Frokk.”

Well, that much was obvious.

You could tell just by looking at his face. No, even just his three fingers would give it away. His entire appearance screamed that he wasn’t human.

“Too long-winded.”

The other figure stepped forward. No, stepping forward didn’t quite capture it.

Enkrid experienced a vision.

A vision of his neck being severed.

The vision came first; his reaction followed.

Clang!

The sound of steel against steel echoed across the training grounds.

Enkrid had drawn his sword halfway and blocked the incoming strike.

When had he drawn his blade?

If not for the instincts honed by countless deaths…

Would he have perished? Or would he have merely been halted?

There was no certainty.

“You blocked that?”

The voice came from his attacker. High-pitched and sharp.

It was a woman with short hair tied tightly back. Her round face seemed gentle, but the sword in her hand said otherwise.

“Shall we continue?”

Her voice was laced with ease, and the blade struck again.

What could one say to describe it? The only word that came to mind was "relentless."

Enkrid saw the blade descend from above.

He saw the blade thrusting toward his abdomen.

He felt his neck being slashed and his arms severed.

His thighs were pierced, his feet impaled.

It was like standing unarmed in the heart of a storm.

Like being a small boat facing a tidal wave.

If I don’t get out of here immediately, I’ll die.

The shadow of death loomed.

Even if the day repeated endlessly, even if it promised growth at the end.

It was impossible for a human to cut away and forget all fear.

Enkrid was merely a madman who could confront it.

If I retreat…

Amidst the storm of blades, Enkrid realized that stepping back would allow him to evade.

Just one step back, and it would all end.

He would no longer have to stand alone amidst the tempest.

So, should he step back?

“Dreams exist to be abandoned.”

“Maybe that’s why your head hurts?”

“Have you lost your mind? A knight? A mere mercenary wretch?”

“I’m sorry—it was my first real battle.”

“Go back to the village. Be a farmer. If you hate that, join the local militia; you might even become its captain.”

The mocking voices of those who had once spoken to him resurfaced.

His heart pounded madly.

They had said to give up, that it was meaningless.

They had asked if the path he was walking was the right one.

Amidst the storm of blades, Enkrid died countless times.

Yet darkness didn’t claim him, and the ferryman didn’t appear.

He simply died. Again and again.

The light faded. Instead of the dawn’s radiance, the shadow of death loomed.

Pain and agony battered his body from all sides.

He already knew the answer.

All he had to do was step back.

Just one step would suffice.

The storm of blades urged him to retreat. It told him this was no place for him to stand.

It promised freedom from all pain and suffering if he just stepped back.

He understood.

And yet, he couldn’t retreat.

Even knowing that stepping back wouldn’t harm his swordsmanship or his trained body in any way.

Even knowing that just one step would end everything.

Still, he couldn’t step back.

A tattered and torn dream questioned him.

“And this is how you think you’ll become a knight?”

The words of those he’d passed by in life never shook him.

They had no reason to.

But this was different.

This couldn’t be.

From the moment he decided to become a knight, Enkrid wielded the sharpest blade.

It was his will, his conviction, his stubbornness.

If his resolve faltered, there would be nowhere left to stand.

He couldn’t undo the steps he had taken, even if he had to crawl forward half a step at a time.

Enkrid didn’t even consider retreating.

Instead…

I’m lacking.

He realized his inadequacies.

Coordination, the sense of evasion.

What if he had honed these skills to their peak? Mastered them completely?

What about the Heart of Might?

The Isolation Technique, or even the Balraf Method of Acupressure?

What if he had faithfully refined his basics, wielding his blade as straight and true as a mustache?

All of these could have formed the foundation for overcoming this situation.

And so, Enkrid couldn’t step back.

“That’s enough.”

The storm ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

The moment Frokk stepped between them, it vanished like a washed-out tide.

“Hah.”

Enkrid exhaled the breath he had been holding.

His heart pounded so fiercely it felt like it might burst from his chest.

His legs trembled. He wanted to collapse but resisted.

Instead, he looked at his opponent—the gentle-faced woman with short hair.

Enkrid focused on one burning question.

He wanted to know what trick she had just pulled.

“I’ve never seen someone like you before. You endured that without knowing how to handle it? If you had lasted a little longer, you’d be dead.”

The woman who had unleashed the storm spoke beside Frokk.

“Who are you?”

Enkrid forced his lips to move, despite how heavy they felt.

“Me? Aisia.”

She stepped forward as she spoke.

Fwoosh.

She spread the cloak she had draped over her shoulders, wrapping it around herself. The vibrant red fabric fluttered in the morning light.

A crimson cloak. Standing with Frokk and personally escorted by Marcus—her identity became clear.

“The Crimson Cloak Order?”

Enkrid murmured, and the woman nodded.

“Junior Knight Aisia.”

Her gentle expression was accompanied by a bright smile.

That was it.

Standing stiffly, Enkrid could do no more than observe.

Shortly after, his senses completely gave out. Darkness claimed him, and the ferryman appeared.

Did I die?

No, it didn’t quite feel like that.

He wasn’t dead. Was this a dream?

As questions swirled within him, a voice answered.

“This is a dream.”

The ferryman spoke. Despite lacking eyes, nose, or mouth, his words reached Enkrid.

“I’ll be watching.”

The ferryman’s words gave rise to another question in Enkrid’s mind.

“Weren’t you watching before?”

At this, the black river and the boat upon it seemed to tilt slightly.

And just as abruptly as it had begun, the dream ended.

Fleeting glimpses of light and darkness.

Among them, the ferryman’s final words echoed in his ears.

“Guess you skipped today’s training?”

Why did that sound like a tease?

Perhaps it was. There was no rule that said a ferryman couldn’t mock someone.

Still, there was something oddly unsettling about his tone and words.

Enkrid ignored it.

When something couldn’t be understood, ignoring it was often the best solution.

Now then…

Before passing out, he thought he’d heard Jaxon’s voice.

***

As Enkrid collapsed, Frokk extended a hand toward him but stopped midway.

Someone else had already stepped in behind him.

A calm gaze accompanied by auburn hair.

"You take your jokes a bit far, don’t you?"

The voice was quiet, belonging to someone with a similarly composed demeanor.

Frokk turned his head slightly, glancing to the side.

There stood another figure radiating a much rougher energy, glaring at him fiercely.

“What’s the big idea, messing around like this at the crack of dawn?”

Gray hair and gray eyes—likely someone from the western frontier.

Behind him stood a large man, towering like a bear.

“Hehe, brothers and sisters, good morning! May I ask why you’re treating my dear and precious squad leader this way?”

What’s with these people?

Frokk couldn’t help but think.

Further behind them, another figure came into view—a man with tousled blond hair and striking red eyes. His disheveled appearance, complete with drool marks at the corner of his lips, immediately gave away his northern origins.

But his stance with that sword...

Frokk couldn’t help but admire it.

Frokk was here at Marcus's request. The commander wanted to evaluate someone’s potential, to determine if they had the qualities of a knight.

It was a stopover on his way back after a recent battle on the frontlines.

Frokk’s vision was unlike that of humans or even fairies.

He had the uncanny ability to discern innate talent—gifts that couldn’t be honed through mere training.

It was this peculiar insight, coupled with years of experience, that had earned Frokk the nickname Able Decider or Talent Appraiser.

Today, Frokk was serving as just that.

While not every instance revealed talent at a glance, sometimes a single look was enough.

Especially when the individual before him was a gem that shone even while buried in the mud.

These individuals were such gems.

To Frokk’s eyes, they were one-in-ten-thousand talents. And among those, one-in-a-thousand.

“Who are these folks?” Frokk asked.

“The Mad Platoon,” Marcus replied from behind him. He had already provided a rough explanation.

“They’re all lunatics,” he had said.

It was a wonder they followed their squad leader at all.

A shame, Frokk thought.

He didn’t have the capacity to take them in right now, even if he wanted to.

Moreover, judging by the hostility radiating from them, these weren’t individuals who could be easily recruited.

Possessing talent didn’t automatically mean one would become a knight.

After all, to be a knight was to meet every condition, to rise to the highest echelon—a world exclusive to those who fit the mold.

“Quite the collection of interesting people,” Aisia remarked from behind.

She wasn’t particularly combative. She had simply performed the test Marcus had requested.

As she spoke, she raised both palms to indicate she had no intention of fighting.

Enkrid would likely be surprised if he knew the truth.

After her initial strike, Aisia had returned her sword to its scabbard and never drawn it again.

Everything after that had been achieved through sheer force of will and pressure.

A display of overwhelming presence, capable of causing her opponent to faint without ever touching them.

It was a feat only a squire-level knight or higher could even contemplate attempting.

Yet it was also wildly inefficient.

Why not simply knock someone out with a single strike? Why waste so much energy radiating an aura?

For Aisia, it was a chore performed solely out of obligation to Marcus’s request.

It was a test, a trial for someone who showed promise. Nothing more.

The ominous pressure dissipated as quickly as it had arisen.

All attention now shifted to Marcus, who spoke decisively.

“Well, what do you think? Can he become a knight?”

If Frokk saw potential, the individual could become a squire and soon be assigned to a knight’s command.

It was a gift from Marcus.

And what greater gift could there be than one aligned with the recipient’s deepest desires?

Marcus believed this to be a calculated move—something he had learned well in the political arena.

When the question was posed, Aisia answered first.

“No.”

Frokk followed.

“Not a chance.”

What did it mean to be a knight?

Gather ten thousand talented individuals.

From those, select a thousand.

And from that thousand, whittle it down to an even smaller number.

Only those who entered this exclusive world could be called knights.

“This one doesn’t make the cut. What about you? Interested?”

Frokk directed the question toward one person in particular.

His large, round eyes, reminiscent of a frog’s, focused on Ragna.

Ragna blinked groggily, his eyes still crusted with sleep.

“Not interested,” he said.

Away from his squad leader, he was nothing more than a slacker.

No one knew this better than Ragna himself, so his refusal came as no surprise.

What a pity, Frokk thought, clicking his tongue in disappointment.

By his assessment, these were individuals even the female Frokk of his kin would covet.

They were immensely talented, and Frokk could only imagine the joy of having them join a knightly order.

And yet they declined.

Even when it was an offer from the Crimson Cloak Order.

While he couldn’t recruit all of them, taking at least one would have been worthwhile.

“Interesting folks, indeed. Request fulfilled. Don’t forget that, Commander Marcus.”

“Of course,” Marcus replied.

Aisia patted Frokk on the back.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

Both had responsibilities awaiting them.

They had to report the victory and subsequent negotiations with Azpen in the capital.

There was no shortage of work.

“I’ll stay here a few more days.”

“What?” Aisia tilted her head, her ponytail swinging side to side.

“What did you say?”

“Go on ahead,” Frokk said.

Aisia opened her mouth as if to argue but then closed it.

It wasn’t an issue for her to travel alone.

Her very identity was proof of her status.

She was a member of the Crimson Cloak Order.

Even without Frokk’s presence, there would be no problems.

Besides, Frokk’s kind was known for their hedonistic tendencies, driven by their desires and whims.

It was best to let him be.

Must be that red-haired soldier who’s caught his interest, she thought.

“Fine, then.”

With that, Aisia departed.

By chance, Venzance, who had been self-appointing himself as a watchman, had observed everything.

He had come out to speak with Enkrid about his behavior during the banquet but ended up witnessing it all instead.

No one paid much attention to him.

The idea that Enkrid’s path to knighthood was impossible wasn’t particularly shocking.

The world was full of such people.

“Guess I’ll stick around for a few days,” Frokk said to Marcus.

Marcus nodded.

And so, with Enkrid unconscious, the morning encounter came to an end.