That was the plan. Or so Vancento had thought.

He had devised the best possible strategy given the circumstances. Or so he believed.

The plan was simple: use the escort mission as an opportunity to kill Enkrid and his companions, then align with Martai to overthrow the city.

He had even convinced himself that this was the course he should have taken long ago.

Now, Vancento would never speak again.

There are no words left for a man buried in the earth with his skull split open.

“Let’s go,” Enkrid said.

He rummaged through the belongings of the two corpses and the wagon, taking anything of value. After that, he dug graves for the bodies and buried them.

“Not bad,” he thought.

A pouch full of gold coins, a few gemstones, and some strange black stones of unknown purpose were among the findings.

The black stones didn’t seem like gems, but they emitted a peculiar aura that made them intriguing.

“Maybe I can sell them?” he mused. Anything that could be converted to gold was worth taking, so he collected it all.

After stuffing the valuables into his bag and grabbing the escort’s black daggers, he was done looting.

He felt like he had stripped the scene clean.

“Looks like I’m the thief here,” Enkrid remarked.

“How about forming the Enkrid Bandits? Once you’re out of the army, of course,” Rem quipped. It was a poor joke, but Rem had no intention of actually robbing commoners.

Without resting, the group set off again. Naturally, Dunbakel, still tied up, had to follow them.

There was no chance to escape.

Even after revealing the ambush location and warning them about the elite forces of the Black Blade, they remained unnervingly composed.

“Rough wilderness, black sun, crumbling earth, shattering skies,” Rem sang as he walked.

It sounded like something one might hear in a western frontier tavern. The song wasn’t particularly good, but Rem’s voice was unexpectedly pleasant.

“Breaking through the sky, running to destroy,” he continued.

As Dunbakel half-listened to the song, she caught snippets of conversation from the front.

“How did you commit the sword movements to memory?”

“I memorized them all,” Enkrid replied.

The question seemed complex, but the answer was straightforward.

The blonde swordsman hesitated, chewing over his words before speaking carefully.

“Extending your left hand forces your opponent to move to the right. You can’t disregard the meaning behind the motion.”

“Got it,” Enkrid said, nodding.

“Got it?”

Dunbakel was baffled. What were they even talking about?

Enkrid spoke again.

“There’s meaning in each step and in the way you hold your sword, right?”

The blonde swordsman nodded lightly, almost cheerfully.

“That’s correct. Every motion has meaning.”

Dunbakel didn’t fully understand the conversation, but one thing was clear.

“They’re talking about swordsmanship.”

Even so, she couldn’t help but feel incredulous. How could they be so calm and collected?

A strange feeling churned in her chest, something she couldn’t quite identify.

But one thing was certain—curiosity began to stir within her.

What kind of people were they, these men who faced death with such ease?

***

Enkrid listened to Ragna’s words and gained a small but valuable insight.

It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Ragna had observed this after just one battle and expressed it. Though his phrasing was clumsy and unclear,

“Well, as long as I understand it properly.”

There was no issue.

Enkrid repeated and rephrased Ragna’s advice to solidify it in his mind.

“All movements in swordsmanship have meaning.”

It was essential to grasp all of those meanings.

He recalled what he had felt during his fight with the beastman earlier.

The harmony of the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.

Ultimately, it was the swordsman’s role to bring out the essence of the technique.

“Understanding and embodying it.”

If he fully understood, he could break it down and apply it in the moment when it mattered most.

Though Ragna had started by discussing the significance of movements, for Enkrid, it became a reflection on the approach to learning swordsmanship.

“Once you’ve mastered the current techniques, then you’ll be ready for mid-sword forms,” Ragna said beside him.

“First, you have to fully understand and embody what you’ve already learned,” Enkrid added.

Both looked ahead and nodded in agreement.

“There’s an ambush up ahead, you know?”

It was at this point, after Rem’s singing had ended and the discussion between Ragna and Enkrid had quieted, that the beastwoman spoke again—this time with a question.

Her voice carried weight, and she made no attempt to hide her frustration.

“What’s your name again?” Enkrid asked, glancing back.

Dunbakel thought to herself how often he was going to ask and responded with a look that seemed to say, “Why would you even care about my name?”

“Dunbakel.”

“Right, Dunbakel,” Enkrid said, preparing to explain.

Why were they heading straight into the ambush? Why were they taking such a risk?

Enkrid didn’t consider the ambush ahead a crisis.

Why?

Who would have informed the ambushers about their group’s strength?

The dead noble and the escort, most likely.

The Black Blade attackers had all been killed, and the only survivor was this beastwoman.

If she had secretly passed along a message, it would have been a different story.

But there were no signs of that—and she hadn’t been given the chance to, either.

Her golden eyes, filled with curiosity, confusion, and a hint of longing, said it all.

Dunbakel simply wanted to know: why march into an ambush?

The answer was simple.

If their enemies were waiting with an elite force without knowing the strength of Enkrid’s group,

“Then it wouldn’t be much of an ambush.”

Of course, things could always go awry. There was always a chance for miscalculations to put them in danger.

If the Black Blade, half-mad as they were, had committed more than half their forces to this trap?

“That’s not likely,” Enkrid thought.

The odds of such a scenario were incredibly slim.

Even Kraiss had once admitted that, while Enkrid wasn’t always the sharpest thinker, when he did use his brain, it worked surprisingly well.

The phrasing was annoying, but the sentiment wasn’t wrong. Enkrid knew this about himself.

“If it were me...”

If he were the leader of the Black Blade, he would have sent a force double the size of the previous one. That would be sufficient.

If he were worried about more, he might add a specialist in assassination.

But this wasn’t the case.

The composition of their forces didn’t make sense. After all, he wasn’t the only one here—Rem and Ragna were also present.

Rem, lazily kicking rocks as he walked, and Ragna, yawning and muttering about being tired, showed no signs of tension.

Both were still far more powerful than Enkrid.

This miscalculation in assessing their group’s strength was what Enkrid was banking on.

Dunbakel repeated her statement about the ambush up ahead, her tone questioning why they were heading toward it.

There was an answer, but explaining it in full would take too long, and Enkrid saw no need to convince the golden-eyed beastwoman.

“If you’re asking why we’re heading toward the ambush, it’s simple,” he said, pausing briefly before adding, “I want to swing my sword some more.”

It wasn’t a lie. While he had calculated the risks, this desire was genuinely in his heart.

At his words, Dunbakel’s golden eyes flickered wildly.

“...Why?”

Why for such a simple reason?

But it was that simplicity that made sense.

Kreimhart’s teachings surged within her, striking her like a bell ringing beside her ears.

“To bloom and wither on the battlefield.”

Her god, Kreimhart, had commanded her to thrive and perish on the battlefield.

Now, the man before her seemed to embody that very ideal.

At the same time, the words of the old fortune-teller she had encountered when exiled from her village came rushing back:

“When you desire death, a guide will be by your side.”

Back then, she thought it was a pitying remark meant to comfort her. But now, it felt different.

Dunbakel had resigned herself to death, yet she had survived.

Whose whim had spared her life?

It was the man standing before her.

Amidst her jealousy, resentment, and admiration, a faint breeze began to stir within her heart.

“I want to bear this man’s child.”

It was a fleeting thought, yet she knew it was likely impossible.

The union of beastfolk and humans rarely resulted in offspring.

But it wasn’t her only desire.

“I want to stay with him.”

She wanted to learn from his life, to be by his side, to die alongside him.

Her heart burned with complex and intense emotions.

Enkrid glanced at her, noting the turbulence in her eyes.

“What’s with her eyes now?” he thought.

Lately, he had seen so many wild-eyed people that he felt he had grown used to it. But this was a first.

It was both strange and intense, almost alluring in its intensity.

“By the way, why didn’t Esther come along?”

Rem’s sudden question broke the moment.

Looking away from Dunbakel, Enkrid responded to Rem.

“No idea. Esther’s just a fickle one.”

His tone was joking, which made Rem chuckle.

“If Esther hears that, she might scribble sheet music all over your face. But you’re not wrong,” Rem replied.

Esther was the kind who, at times, seemed inseparable, yet at others would wander off on her own for days.

The group, still relaxed, climbed a small hill.

A few scattered trees came into view, and soon the area became denser, with trees flanking them on both sides.

The path grew uneven, with jagged stones jutting out from the dirt.

Ants scurried in lines, carrying the remains of dead insects with diligent precision.

It was not an ideal path for walking.

As they continued walking, the terrain resembled more of a gentle hill than a true ridge.

Beyond this point, it would take two days on foot to reach the agreed meeting spot—the place where the envoy and the Black Blade were supposed to convene.

Though now, that agreement no longer held any meaning.

Rustle.

The leaves swayed in the breeze, and sunlight filtered through their gaps.

The weather was pleasant, the breeze refreshing, and the sunlight softened by the shade of the leaves.

Ahead lay a clearing, flanked by dense foliage and thorny undergrowth.

It was a dead end, a cul-de-sac with no visible path forward.

“This is the end of the line.”

A voice called out from within the clearing.

About ten figures stood there, their presence impossible to ignore.

Three women and seven men.

Among them, one wielded an axe, another let his hands dangle lazily by his sides, while a third, seated atop a large rock, gazed coolly at the group. Another perched on a tree branch above, observing silently.

The diversity in their appearances and stances was striking.

Tension hung in the air. The one who had spoken glared at Enkrid and his companions, prompting them to halt.

Now came the critical question—what next?

The air was taut with suspense, and yet it was Enkrid who broke the silence.

“Wow, an ambush!”

His tone was theatrical, and his acting left much to be desired.

“Oh no, we’re caught,” Rem added, his voice dripping with mock surprise.

“Such a shock,” Ragna chimed in, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as if the ambush were a minor inconvenience.

Watching this unfold, Dunbakel could only gape in disbelief.

An impromptu play? Here?

“You waited for us here? Such meticulous planning,” Enkrid continued, digging into his ear as he spoke of their enemies’ supposed cunning.

“We didn’t see this coming at all. I’m shaking in my boots,” Rem said, nonchalantly picking his nose.

Even while performing such an unsightly act, Rem’s good looks remained intact.

“I was so shocked I nearly bit my tongue,” Enkrid said as he popped a candy into his mouth.

Crunch.

It tasted sweet. Where had he even gotten that candy? Dunbakel found herself wondering.

“I feel like running away,” Enkrid remarked, prompting Rem—ever the master of teasing his enemies—to play along.

What were they doing?

It was blatant provocation.

Even Dunbakel, listening to their barbs, felt her own irritation rising.

How must their opponents feel?

“Are they insane?” one of them muttered, clearly baffled.

“These idiots must have a death wish,” said a woman who feigned composure.

“They’re all dead meat anyway,” said another, who seemed utterly indifferent to the situation.

“Those damn bastards!” growled one, visibly enraged.

Their reactions seemed to please Enkrid and Rem, who exchanged nods, satisfied with their handiwork.

“Don’t run off. Stay here,” Ragna said, her crimson eyes briefly glancing at Dunbakel before she stepped back.

If there was ever a moment to escape, this was it.

But Dunbakel chose to stay.

She wanted to see.

To understand what these three believed in that had brought them here.

Their opponents were among the Black Blade’s elite forces.

Dunbakel still hadn’t grasped the true extent of Enkrid, Rem, and Ragna’s abilities.

“I’ve never seen fools like you in my life. Vancento isn’t here, so I assume you’ve already dealt with him. And yet, you still came, knowing we’d be waiting for you?”

The speaker was a man with a thick beard, wielding a bec de corbin—a polearm with a sharp spike at the tip and a small axe blade on the side.

Even from his stance, it was clear he was no ordinary opponent.

If you were caught by the axe blade, your skull would split open like a ripe fruit.

“How’d you know we’d be here?” Enkrid asked.

“...You’ve got a natural talent for pissing people off, don’t you?” the man with the polearm growled, narrowing his eyes.

Rem burst into laughter.

“Bingo! I’ve never met anyone with a sharper tongue than this guy.”

Enkrid sighed, feigning indignation.

“I was only being sincere,” he replied.

Of course, he’d meant to provoke them, but wasn’t that just the sort of thing people said in situations like this?

“It’d be smarter to fight with steel than words,” Rem said, signaling an end to their charade.

The man with the polearm furrowed his brows.

For a brief moment, he hesitated.

“They came here knowing about the ambush?”

But there wasn’t much time to deliberate.

“What’s there to think about?!”

A brawler wearing iron knuckles on both hands stepped forward.

Enkrid’s taunts and provocations had done their job. The enemy was agitated and impulsive.

Seeing the brawler charge, the man with the polearm had no choice but to act.

“Kill them first.”

Among the Black Blade’s regional forces, these ten were considered elite. They were known as the “Ten Swords of the Branch.”

Their combined strength was enough to handle any opponent in the area—unless they faced a knight order.

And in this situation, there was no way a knight order could appear. Confident in their inevitable victory, the man with the polearm prepared for battle.

Or so he thought.

Up until the moment the brawler and the axe-wielder launched their first strikes, he truly believed so.