Azpen had lost, but it had not fallen.

Victory and defeat were cycles, always repeating.

No matter how meticulously one prepares, problems will arise. Loss is just another challenge to endure.

"It’s possible to lose."

That much, Abnair could accept.

But to lose like this? To have every plan crumble one after another? To see carefully laid strategies dismissed outright?

Even though the battlefront had been chosen to minimize risk, to see such preparation invalidated so thoroughly?

Azpen’s brilliant strategist, Abnair, had been confident.

While not expecting a perfect victory, he had believed they wouldn’t be so easily pushed back.

Why wouldn’t he? He had made ample arrangements.

He had enlisted giants, concealed his forces, and baited the enemy into complacency with decoy tactics.

The crux of the strategy was this: to win the flanking battle and split Naurillia’s main force.

By dividing their primary strength, the tide of the campaign could shift.

But from the start, everything went wrong.

The defeat in a battle they could not afford to lose had unraveled everything, triggering a catastrophic chain reaction.

It was like toppling one bookshelf and having the entire library collapse.

“This is absurd.”

The disbelief spilled from his lips unbidden. Abnair ran a hand through his green hair, brushing it back as he gazed out the window.

In the bright sunlight, he saw a child playing, a handful of attendants following behind.

The child noticed the window and waved. Abnair leaned on the windowsill, elbow propped up, and returned the gesture before closing his eyes to soak in the sun.

It was a fine day. The season was warming.

The child climbed onto a swing hanging from a tree.

While watching, Abnair’s mind churned through the start of the campaign, dissecting it piece by piece.

"Why?"

Why had they lost?

The initial failure began at the flank.

His thoughts raced back to the beginning, sifting through the causes of defeat.

Tracing back further and further, he arrived at the true starting point.

"The soldier duel."

That was the first crack. From there, Michi Hurrier’s death followed.

And eventually, unexpected individuals displayed unforeseen strength during the flank battle.

Who or what had been at the center of it all?

Among the reports Abnair received, one name stood out.

A message sent by a dying allied commander:

"Mad Squad, led by Captain Enkrid."

The name wasn’t unfamiliar. As Abnair mulled it over, he remembered. This was the same man the Hurrier family had sent an assassin after.

A mere captain? Could such a person have been the catalyst for all these events?

Abnair wasn’t sure. From this point on, he relied on instinct.

The intuition of a strategist, the gut feeling of a tactician.

"It wouldn’t be a waste."

At the time, it had seemed foolish for the Hurrier family to send an assassin, but now, perhaps it had been the right move.

With future wars in mind, Abnair resolved to utilize an assassin.

Not to eliminate a high-ranking figure, but to target one lone captain.

There was an ancient guild operating within Azpen, one that specialized in such tasks without leaving traces.

Having solidified his plan, Abnair acted quickly. He stepped away from the window and ordered the summoning of the assassin guild under the royal name.

“Crossing the border will triple the reward. Unreasonable requests will be declined,” the guild replied.

A note listing the reward in krona was enough to secure their services.

“One captain? You’re willing to spend this much krona for just one man?”

The reward was enough to buy a mansion in Azpen’s capital.

There was no reason for the assassin guild to refuse.

They weren’t targeting a prominent noble or a key military figure—just a captain. While crossing the border posed some risk, it was a straightforward job.

The guild accepted and dispatched three assassins.

“Failed?”

The guild master reflected on how lightly they’d taken the task.

“Send two mid-level assassins next.”

They recalled the previous failure of the half-elf assassin. She had been mid-level, too. Taking that into account, they dispatched two assassins this time.

“Boss.”

“Another failure?”

Now it was becoming strange. Why were they failing so consistently?

“Two mid-level assassins?”

“Yes.”

What was going on?

Perhaps they needed to send a top-tier assassin. At this point, the guild master began calculating the losses.

“Send a top-tier assassin.”

A job had to be completed, especially when it came directly from the royal palace. Officially, the guild operated independently, but in reality, the Swamp of Monterre guild was owned by the crown.

The guild master knew well that opposing the royal palace would mean the end of their operations.

Thus, a top-tier assassin was dispatched.

“What the hell is this?!”

One of the top ten assassins within Monterre’s Swamp had failed. No contact was received.

Unless some kindhearted mage had appeared and disabled the magical seals engraved on the assassin’s body, it was safe to assume they were dead.

Sure enough, two days later, the assassin’s severed head was delivered—straight to one of the guild’s hidden safehouses.

“Inform the royal palace.”

The guild master concluded that further attempts would only lead to more losses.

Their opponent clearly had something—someone—exceptional on their side.

“This is my assessment,” he said firmly.

He reported everything to the royal palace, explaining why further action would be impossible.

Abnair stifled a hollow laugh.

"An assassin guild, failing?"

Even he found it hard to believe. But there was no time or resources to pursue the matter further.

“Let’s leave it be,” Abnair said, letting the matter drop.

He was too preoccupied with Azpen’s internal affairs to invest more effort in a single captain.

If there was something extraordinary about that man, Enkrid—if he truly had some unique quality—

"We’ll meet again."

Abnair let the name fade from his thoughts.

If they were destined to clash on the battlefield, he would face it then.

Enkrid wasn’t someone to be killed by mere assassination.

***

For several days now, a shadow had been lingering near the barracks.

The movements were skilled, familiar—disguises so convincing that even a hasty observation wouldn’t hint at the same person beneath.

Jaxon, crouched nearby, held his breath, muffling every sound.

He completely suppressed his presence, perfecting the art of sensory disruption.

"What’s this?"

An assassin. He recognized it instantly—one of his own kind.

In Jaxon’s hand, a fine black thread unspooled. The thread was coated with black ink and a special oil to prevent it from reflecting light.

The thread wrapped tightly around the assassin’s neck.

Before the target could react, Jaxon yanked the thread taut, using his elbow to pull it tighter. The neckbone cracked halfway with a sickening snap.

A muted pop followed as the assassin’s head tilted unnaturally to the side.

A broken neck meant death. That much was certain.

Jaxon studied the lifeless body.

Would this assassin have been a challenging opponent for anyone else?

Perhaps.

Though Jaxon’s role within the Border Guard leaned more toward intelligence than combat, he wasn’t one to be caught off guard.

"Third one."

This was the third attack in the three months since the battle.

The third assassin had taken a more calculated approach, lurking near the barracks wall for days.

The assassin had cycled through disguises—a beggar one day, an old man the next, then a merchant.

"A decent opponent."

The fact that someone of this caliber had entered the city suggested a specific target within the barracks.

If the aim had been a company commander, battalion leader, or noble, the methods would’ve been different.

The first wave of assassins had pretended to be new recruits, their intent obvious.

Their target?

"The Mad Squad."

Following the trail of clues, Jaxon pinpointed the target.

The squad leader—Enkrid.

But with Enkrid confined to the barracks and training grounds for three months straight, the assassins had tried to infiltrate directly.

“Idiots.”

To think they’d expend so much effort and manpower just to eliminate a single squad leader.

Under the cover of two large trees near the barracks wall, Jaxon hoisted the body over his shoulder, careful to avoid drawing attention.

He carried the corpse to an alley where vagrants gathered, setting it down in a lifelike sleeping position.

After purchasing a bottle of cheap liquor, he poured it over the body and placed the bottle nearby.

This way, anyone who found the body would assume it was just another drunk who’d passed away.

With the matter dealt with, Jaxon headed into the red-light district.

This wasn’t his first visit. He was a regular here.

Several women glanced at him as he entered, their eyes lingering on his striking features—rare and unforgettable.

Ignoring their stares, Jaxon walked directly to his usual spot, entering a private room.

Inside, a young blonde woman greeted him, her bare shoulders exposed.

When Jaxon signaled with a few hand gestures, she spoke.

“No ears here.”

“And the problem?”

“No more problems,” she replied.

Previously, a half-elf assassin had entered the city unnoticed.

Even though they hadn’t blanketed the entire city with informants, it had been a glaring oversight.

Jaxon had taken the failure personally—it wounded his pride.

Since then, he’d dealt with every assassin who dared step into the city.

As long as he remained with the Border Guard, no assassin—or anyone else attempting such schemes—would make it through.

This wasn’t just about protecting the squad leader.

Absolutely not.

Leaning against the door, Jaxon maintained his usual stoic expression.

The woman watched him closely before speaking again.

“They’re from Monterre’s Swamp. What should we do?”

Monterre’s Swamp was an assassination guild based in Azpen.

“Let them know this is my territory. Our way.”

Kill every intruder who crossed the line—that was the message.

The woman nodded in agreement.

It might escalate into a guild war.

A hidden war that no one else would know about.

But her organization specialized in such things.

Later that night, Jaxon spent the evening with her.

Though their relationship had started professionally, it had since grown more personal. The two shared a physical connection, and some might even call them lovers.

In the early morning, the woman awoke and ordered her subordinates to retrieve the corpse Jaxon had dealt with.

They decapitated the body and sent the head directly to one of Monterre’s Swamp’s hidden bases.

It was a warning.

Should they ignore the warning and continue their pursuit, the consequences would be their own to bear.

After that, Monterre’s Swamp ceased their operations against the squad.

It wasn’t surprising.

While Monterre’s Swamp operated on Azpen’s stage, this organization moved across the entire continent.

***

"Is This the Right Place?"

Kraiss glanced at the dingy alley and grimaced. The foul smell and the filth-covered ground made it a place one would avoid stepping into if possible.

It was near an area frequented by vagrants, and Kraiss directed his question to Jaxon.

Enkrid also shifted his gaze slightly.

In addition to gathering supplies for their upcoming journey, Enkrid had asked if it was possible to acquire some whistle daggers.

“They can be acquired,” Jaxon had said, leading them to this location.

Given how busy Jaxon had been lately, Enkrid hadn’t expected him to find time for this errand.

Jaxon, who barely set foot in the barracks due to his trips to the red-light district and other shadowy dealings, offered no response to Kraiss’s query. If he deemed a question unworthy of his time, he simply didn’t answer—classic Jaxon.

His silence, however, was answer enough.

Kraiss didn’t press the matter further. Sure, the place was filthy, but it wasn’t enough to deter him.

“This way,” Jaxon said nonchalantly, stepping deeper into the alley.

Enkrid followed.

He had hoped to find a skilled blacksmith, but that idea had already been ruled out. Kraiss had scouted extensively, coming up empty-handed.

Trailing behind Enkrid was Frokk, who had unexpectedly decided to join, along with Esther, the enigmatic leopard-like creature.

As they entered the narrow alley, littered with trash and grime, Esther leapt onto the walls, scaling them effortlessly before moving along the rooftops.

“That thing’s no ordinary animal,” muttered Lua Gharne, who was observing Esther.

Enkrid half-agreed. At times, Esther seemed almost human.

Lua Gharne wore her custom boots, reinforced with eight straps and sturdy wooden soles. The sound of her steps echoed as her boots struck the cobblestones.

“We’re here,” Jaxon announced, stopping abruptly.

Preparations for a mission often required many items, and Enkrid had been keen on obtaining whistle daggers.

“…Lots of visitors today,” commented an old woman seated on a mat in front of a partially open door.

Her wrinkled hands, golden curls tinged with silver, and crystal ball marked her as a fortune teller.

“This is the place?” Enkrid asked.

Though he had seen his fair share of underground dealings, he wasn’t expecting this.

He’d witnessed illegal slave markets and black-market transactions during his mercenary days.

But a fortune teller? And one claiming to have whistle daggers?

“Yes,” Jaxon replied simply, signaling to the woman using a form of sign language. Whatever he conveyed seemed to work, as the old woman snorted in amusement.

Her snort felt like a signal of approval, though Enkrid couldn’t be sure.

“What are you looking for?” the old woman asked.

“Whistle daggers. The more, the better,” Enkrid replied.

“Payment?”

“This man will handle it,” Enkrid said, gesturing toward Kraiss.

“Yes, of course. I’ll cover it,” Kraiss said, feigning enthusiasm. While he wasn’t thrilled about the expense, he knew investments were necessary to reap rewards.

“I’ll have them sent to your unit,” the old woman replied.

“Do you even know who I am?” Enkrid asked, narrowing his eyes.

The old woman chuckled, shaking her head.

“There’s probably not a soul in this city who doesn’t know your name—even if they don’t know the battalion commander’s.”

What?

Enkrid was taken aback and considered asking more questions, but before he could, the old woman packed up her belongings with practiced efficiency and retreated into her shop.

The ease with which she folded her mat and gathered her tools suggested she had done this many times before.

It left Enkrid with a lingering thought:

How did Jaxon know about this place?

Kraiss, who had given up on finding the daggers, couldn’t figure it out either.

But Enkrid didn’t ask. His objective was the whistle daggers, not Jaxon’s past.

“Do you think she’ll actually deliver? I’m not convinced,” Kraiss muttered skeptically.

“If she doesn’t, we’ll manage,” Enkrid replied, continuing down the alley.

Since they were already out, Enkrid planned to pick up a few other supplies at the market, including some seasoned jerky and repairs for his armor.

With the weather growing hotter, wearing a gambeson underneath would be unbearable, yet venturing out without proper protection wasn’t an option.

He considered getting a loose-fitting leather chest piece. His previous leather armor had been shredded—courtesy of Esther’s claws.

“You should probably pay for the damage with your claws,” Enkrid teased, glancing up at Esther, who was prowling along the rooftop.

“Kirrr,” Esther growled softly, a sound that seemed to say, Don’t push it.

It made Enkrid chuckle. His comment had been a joke, after all.

At the jerky stall, the shopkeeper greeted him immediately.

“Thank you,” the shopkeeper said, bowing deeply.

“For what?” Enkrid asked, tilting his head in confusion.

The shopkeeper bowed again, this time so low that white strands of hair at his crown caught the sunlight.

“As a poor mother raising a son on my own, how could I charge the man who saved my child? Take as much as you want.”

“What?”

Enkrid was stunned.

He had simply done his duty—fighting to survive and move forward. Yet, the battles he had fought and the lives he had saved had ripple effects he hadn’t anticipated.

“Thank you. Without my son, I’d have no reason to live,” the shopkeeper said, her voice heavy with gratitude.

The mother’s heartfelt thanks resonated deeply.

Stories of Enkrid’s heroism had spread throughout the Border Guard, and many who owed their lives to him now spoke of his deeds.

Armorers offered discounts, merchants provided free goods, and market vendors shared gifts of fruit, dried food, and even charcoal.

For three months, the marketplace had missed seeing their hero, but now that he was here, they honored him with what little they could give.

“This feels… unnecessarily nice,” Kraiss grumbled, though his smile betrayed his true feelings.

Enkrid felt the same.

He hadn’t fought to save anyone specifically, but protecting those around him had always been in his heart.

It made him reflect:

What does it mean to be a knight?

"A knight is a protector."

Someone who guards the smiles of their people and stands firm in their convictions.

For Enkrid, this unexpected journey into the market had become a deeply satisfying day.