If a meal had been prepared for him, wasn’t it only right to at least taste it?

A simple fire was lit, and a pot was placed over it.

It was a field meal, so nothing extravagant could be expected.
Dried meat, fruits, cheese, and water mixed with wine were all they had.

Everyone ate and drank.

Enkrid was tearing into the seasoned jerky he had brought when he noticed a gaze fixed on him.

It was the beastwoman.

"Do you want some?"

The hunger glimmering in her golden eyes made it clear she was starving.

Come to think of it, she probably hadn’t had a proper meal since being captured. Whether to kill her or set her free, it only made sense to at least feed her.

Her hunger was so severe that her eyes sparkled with a faint golden light.

"There’s no need to be stingy," he thought.

How much was a piece of jerky worth, really?

Enkrid tore off a strip of jerky and sat down in front of her. Then, he shoved it into her mouth, causing her eyes to widen in shock.

"Go ahead, try it."

Dunbakel hesitated before chewing. The salty and sweet flavors spread across her tongue, stimulating her brain.

At the same time, she looked intently at the man in front of her.

The more she observed him, the more her envy and jealousy gave way to something akin to admiration.

"If only I were like him."

What would her life have been like if she had lived as earnestly as he had?

A sense of longing filled her. Having subordinates of his caliber must have been sheer luck.

What if that luck had been hers instead?

Why had she been born into such miserable circumstances?

Why was she fated to be born this way and then cast aside?

If only the neglect had stopped there, she might have devoted herself to her village, even dying for it. How great would it have been to pass away like that, cradled in Kreimhart’s embrace?

Regret, envy, admiration, and remorse—all these emotions swirled within her.

By the time she finished chewing and swallowing the jerky, a flask was handed to her. Expecting it to be the usual water mixed with wine, she was surprised when the refreshing scent of apples filled her mouth.

"Apple cider."

Why was he treating her like this?

Dunbakel considered that he might be trying to lure her in, but she couldn’t be certain.

Still, it was a moment of choice.

Should she speak or remain silent?

She decided.

"The Black Blade has an ambush planned," she said, her lips still stained with seasoning.

When asked how she knew, she was prepared to talk about their markings.

But Enkrid simply looked her straight in the eye and replied, "I see."

Even after that, Dunbakel expected him to take some kind of action, but he remained unexpectedly quiet.

He merely returned to his meal, occasionally throwing a few casual questions at the noble, who was also an informant for the Black Blade.

"How do you know the way?"

Being sent as an envoy for the Black Blade was one thing, but knowing the route was another matter entirely.

It was something Marcus had chosen not to probe into, but Enkrid brought it up anyway.

Vancento twisted his lips into a sneer and replied, "You don’t need to know, commoner."

Was it a habit to tack on "commoner" at the end of every sentence?

And yet, this so-called noble didn’t seem all that impressive himself.

Enkrid, setting aside his thoughts, nodded in understanding.

After all, it wasn’t the most important matter.

His gaze turned to the Black Blade escort.

He had observed their gait, gestures, posture, and positioning over the course of their travels.

He had seen them briefly in the city, but seeing them out here made things clear.

"Not bad," he thought.

Among his current sparring partners—Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, Audin, and even the Pixie Company Commander—none had given off this particular vibe.

Light on their feet, quick with their hands.

Their weapon of choice was likely short. Throwing techniques probably suited them well, too.

Half of him was eager to see their unique techniques, while the other half felt a subtle thirst.

Sparring was sparring, but a real fight was something else entirely.

Watching the escort tear off a piece of thin bread and wash it down with water made him think:

"I want to fight them."

There was something captivating about their movements and gestures.

"How far would my swordsmanship go?"

What would he need to focus on when facing them?

How could he match their steps?

Enkrid wasn’t a genius.

Solutions didn’t magically come to him just by observing.

But with hundreds, if not thousands, of sparring matches under his belt, he could draw on that experience to devise a response.

"If I cut their thigh..."

Their footing would falter, neutralizing one of their strengths.

From the moment he noticed their distinctive habits, Enkrid wanted to fight them.

Perhaps they sensed his gaze.

"You’re annoying," the Black Blade escort said, lifting their head after swallowing a piece of bread and taking a sip of water.

At the end of their sharp gaze was Enkrid, who replied, "Me?"

"Who else?"

A peculiar tension swept between them. One side exuded subtle aggression, while the other displayed irritation and thinly veiled hostility.

The escort, the one brimming with malice, clasped their hands atop their knees as they sat in the shade of a tree.

Amidst the sounds of horses grazing and the unseasonably cool summer breeze, the escort spoke again.

"You’re at that age where you’re brimming with confidence in your skills."

Enkrid silently agreed. Recently, he had been feeling something akin to confidence.

"But you should be careful. Choose your opponents wisely."

That, too, was true.

"You’re just a lowly soldier ranked as a so-called elite, aren’t you?"

...That was not true.

"Don’t be a fool and throw your life away over something stupid."

Enkrid wasn’t surprised. People had underestimated him countless times before.

Even Kraiss had warned him before he left:

"Marcus seems intent on concealing your accomplishments. He’s clearly after something."

With his achievements hidden, it was natural for others to misjudge him.

Still, Enkrid felt a pang of disappointment.

"Their discernment."

He could see their potential, but they couldn’t see his.

This was, of course, expected.

Enkrid had clawed his way up from the bottom, inch by inch.

He lacked the arrogance or hubris of someone who had rapidly risen in skill.

He was defined by the relentless determination of someone who had fed on defeat and used it to climb higher.

This meant, on the surface, he probably seemed like an ordinary swordsman.

"What a load of nonsense," Rem muttered.

Hearing this, Vancento chimed in with a sneer.

"You barbaric fool. Shut your mouth. Or does your lack of a mother show?"

The words were a blade, striking deep into Rem.

Enkrid thought it was too late to stop things now.

Perhaps it was just as well.

***

The escort in black initially thought to resolve the situation with words.

After all, in just half a day, this mission would be over. The ambush by the Black Blade waiting ahead would kill them all.

Originally, he had considered stepping in himself.

“One of them wouldn’t be a problem.”

But if it were both Rem and Ragna together...

Facing the two simultaneously was something he wanted to avoid.

Enkrid? He wasn’t even worth considering.

Who was he? Among the ranks of the Black Blade, he was one of the most skilled. Trained by an exceptional teacher, his talent was unmatched.

At that moment, a familiar, venomous voice cut through the air:

"You barbaric fool, shut your mouth. Are you flaunting your lack of a mother?"

Vancento, as always, spewed his vitriol.

Enkrid was about to step in to restrain Rem again, but there was no time.

Wham! Crack!

A sound like wind being cleaved was followed by a heavy, grotesque noise.

The escort turned his head. His neck remained twisted for a moment as his brain tried to comprehend the scene.

“Gu... gurrk...”

A man with an axe buried in his face could not speak properly. Of course.

Nor would he likely survive.

A man with half his face cleaved off was closer to a ghoul than a human being.

‘Even a ghoul wouldn’t survive such a blow.’

Through the vertical split in his skull, something small and precious spilled out along with a steady stream of blood.

One of his eyeballs popped out upon impact and rolled to the side.

The axe’s force sent him stumbling backward before his corpse collapsed onto the ground.

His name was Vancento—a member of the Black Blade, this mission’s envoy, and a noble.

“Well, damn. That was harsh,” Rem muttered, dusting off his hands as he watched.

“This... this is madness!”

The escort finally stood up in shock.

Neighhh!

The sudden commotion startled the two horses tied to the wagon, causing them to cry out.

Dunbakel stood agape.

“A noble... killed?”

They had barely left the watchful eyes of the Border Guard, having traveled just over half a day.

And now, their escort mission’s envoy—a noble, no less—was dead.

Killed by one of his supposed protectors.

“Well, it’s done now,” Enkrid remarked, his tone plain and indifferent.

“‘Done now?’ You insane bastards!”

The escort, not known for his quick wit, found himself utterly flabbergasted. Enkrid thought as much.

Ragna, on the other hand, remained unfazed.

He simply turned to Enkrid and asked, “Are you handling this alone?”

“I’d like to.”

“Do as you please.”

Rem, walking as if on a casual stroll, retrieved the axe he had thrown. With a wet pop, he pulled it out of Vancento’s corpse, wiping the blood off the blade on the noble’s silk robes.

The escort’s thoughts grew increasingly tangled.

A noble’s title was a shield. Even if it was only a barony, killing a noble brought immense consequences.

If this became known, Rem would be hunted relentlessly until his dying breath. To take such a gamble...

“What are you staring at? Want me to decorate your head next?” Rem said, meeting the escort’s gaze.

“He’s mine,” Enkrid said, for once showing a rare moment of possessiveness.

“Got it. If you hadn’t claimed him, I’d have already sliced him up,” Rem replied, wiping his axe clean with deliberate slowness.

The escort spoke, his voice tense.

“This area is still under the Border Guard’s patrol. What will you do if a patrol stumbles upon this?”

It was a fair question.

“They won’t come,” Enkrid replied matter-of-factly.

He already knew the patrol routes and timings. He had gotten all the details from Venzance, who doubled as the patrol captain.

“They won’t come?”

The escort realized that this wasn’t some impulsive act.

“Was this planned from the start?”

Enkrid drew his sword with a soft shing. Sunlight gleamed off the blade as it pointed at the escort.

Seeing the blade aimed at him, the escort pulled out his weapons—two black daggers, drawn silently.

Holding both daggers in a reverse grip, he instinctively assumed a defensive stance.

‘There’s backup half a day’s distance from here.’

Vancento’s death was already behind him. Now, it was about survival.

How could he escape?

Enkrid claimed he would face him alone.

Rem and Ragna seemed uninterested in intervening.

‘I’ll go for a quick, decisive strike.’

The escort was confident in his speed, but there were steps to prepare.

“So you knew the patrol wouldn’t come. You planned this from the beginning, didn’t you?”

Enkrid shrugged.

“No one sees, no one knows.”

The escort began to shift his position, as if to gain an advantage by moving into the sunlight. Enkrid mirrored him, adjusting his stance.

The escort finally positioned himself with the wagon to his right and slightly behind.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed one of his daggers high into the air.

Enkrid instinctively raised his sword.

As Enkrid’s attention shifted to the tossed blade, the escort moved.

Using his free hand, he hurled two throwing knives from his belt toward the horses.

Thunk! Thunk!

The knives embedded themselves deep into the horses’ necks.

Neighhh!

The horses screamed, blood pouring from their wounds. They teetered and collapsed, their cries piercing the air.

Without the horses, the escort calculated, his pursuers would lose their mobility.

All that remained was dealing with Enkrid.

The escort caught the dagger he had thrown and dashed forward, lowering his body to close the distance.

In an instant, he was within striking range.

It is often said that in a fight between long and short weapons, the longer weapon has the advantage.

But once the distance is closed, the shorter weapon dominates.

“Got you,” the escort thought, crossing his reverse-gripped daggers in a scissor-like motion to slash at Enkrid’s wrist and neck.

Enkrid deflected one blade with his bracer and leaned back to avoid the other.

His timing was perfect, his movements precise.

As the escort’s momentum carried him forward, Enkrid countered with a rising knee.

Thud!

“Ugh!”

‘How is he this strong?’

The single knee strike sent pain shooting up the escort’s shin.

Before he could recover, Enkrid disappeared from view.

The next thing he felt was a sharp presence to his side. He ducked instinctively.

Ping!

Enkrid’s sword skimmed past his hair, slicing off several strands.

The escort didn’t have time to catch his breath. He lunged forward with both daggers, aiming for Enkrid’s torso.

Whoosh!

His thrusts sliced through empty air.

Before he could react, Enkrid brought his arm down in a scything motion, striking the escort’s head with his forearm.

Smack! Crash!

The blow drove the escort’s forehead into the ground.

Without hesitation, Enkrid drove his sword downward.

Squish!

The blade pierced the back of the escort’s head, creating a second mouth beneath his skull. Blood gushed like a fountain as Enkrid withdrew his sword.

He stepped back and flicked the blade, scattering droplets of blood onto the ground.

“Not satisfied? Wasn’t fun?” Rem asked, smirking.

“It was too dull,” Enkrid replied honestly.

The escort’s speed was slower than a gnoll leader’s.

His tactics were inferior to the cursed swordsman’s.

He was slightly better than the beastwoman but far from exceptional.

Enkrid felt as if he’d left a task incomplete.

“What’s your name?” he asked. Naturally, the question wasn’t directed at Rem or Ragna.

The beastwoman answered hesitantly, her golden eyes wide.

“Dunbakel.”

Fixing his gaze on Dunbakel, Enkrid asked another question, disappointment evident in his voice.

“How many men are in the ambush?”

If a feast had been prepared for him, wasn’t it only right to at least taste it?

Enkrid meant every word.

Dunbakel realized she had no other choice.

These men were undoubtedly insane.

“It’ll be a small elite force. They’ll be prepared, so don’t expect weaklings.”

At her words, Enkrid’s eyes lit up, though he didn’t smile.

Rem grinned broadly, while Ragna quietly observed Enkrid and commented:

“Why did you give him space?”

“To make him overconfident.”

“Not bad.”

Even in the midst of this, they discussed swordsmanship as if nothing had happened.

Their indifference to the dead noble was almost absurd.