Enkrid lifted his head and recognized the enemy. In that fleeting moment:

"Kill them all!"

The one presumed to be the leader of the raiding party shouted, his narrow eyes gleaming with malice.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Enkrid noticed the leader retreating hastily. Ignoring the chaos around him, he decided to give chase.

"Handle the rest yourselves."

He tossed out the words and darted off. By activating the Heart of Might, Enkrid could mimic the dashes performed by junior knights.

As he had observed earlier, adding a touch of precision to this technique could extend both the duration and speed of his movement.

What his mind envisioned, his body executed. The process was markedly different from before.

Initially clumsy, his movements quickly became fluid and efficient.

While he wouldn’t call it instinctive yet, it wasn’t awkward either.

Enkrid relentlessly pursued the fleeing man. Catching up was easy—it was hard not to when your target was crashing through bushes, trees, and thorny undergrowth with reckless abandon.

When the fugitive realized he was cornered, he turned to fight, wielding an arming sword with remarkable skill.

His swordsmanship was centered on technique.

If categorized, it would fall under the Refined Quickstrike School, but:

“It’s even cruder than the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.”

The fugitive mixed feints into his strikes, aiming to finish with a decisive thrust.

“He’d be better off using a dual-draw technique.”

In terms of finesse, even the beastwoman mercenary leader Dunbakel was superior.

That’s not to say the man lacked skill.

Dunbakel’s methods were crude, devoid of elegance or meaningful structure, relying on brute strength and deceptive tricks.

In contrast, this man displayed no hesitation in his movements, evidence of rigorous training.

But that didn’t make him a match for Enkrid.

Clang, crack, crunch!

Before the man could unleash his repertoire, Enkrid closed the distance and swung his blade, deflecting and countering with ease.

Having already analyzed the man’s technique, he didn’t need to see it twice.

With a diagonal upward slash, Enkrid caught the man’s sword, exposing his chest.

Enkrid immediately rammed his shoulder into the man’s solar plexus, forcing a guttural gasp from his opponent.

Even as he faltered, the man’s eyes glinted with determination. His hand reached for a knife at his waist.

But Enkrid, without missing a beat, drew his guard sword and thrust it into the man’s chin while pressing forward with his shoulder.

In a single breath, he combined several actions into one—a mimicry of Ragna’s seamless technique.

When Enkrid stopped, the man let out a stifled groan.

With his knife hand still hovering, his left arm was awkwardly twisted behind him.

"Who are you?"

The man didn’t answer, prompting Enkrid to press the blade against his throat. Blood began to bead below his Adam’s apple.

When Enkrid feigned a slip and pushed the blade deeper, a stream of blood flowed freely.

"The Black Blade Band! We’re from the main base!" the man blurted out in panic.

"The main base? Why?"

"A patrol!"

A lie. Enkrid’s instincts told him so. He neither squinted nor glared at the man; his calm demeanor was unsettling enough.

"Just to check—are you planning on telling me the truth?"

"…What?"

Of course not.

With a decisive motion, Enkrid dragged the guard sword across the man’s throat.

The new gash below his Adam’s apple guaranteed his death.

There was no time for lengthy interrogations, and even if there were, it was unlikely the man had valuable information.

The situation was already clear: what importance did the Black Blade’s main base hold now?

Avoiding the gushing blood, Enkrid pushed the man’s body aside and turned back.

Returning to the others, the situation was evident.

They had fought. And they had won.

Victory left behind a battlefield strewn with corpses. Bodies were scattered everywhere.

Three survivors had been rounded up and set aside.

Enkrid began rifling through the dead man’s belongings. Rem and Ragna were doing the same.

Leaving behind anything salvageable would be wasteful.

Among the loot, they found a wrist-mounted arrow launcher, poisoned sand, a half-eaten loaf of bread, a few silver coins, copper coins, and small blades.

Even the weapons the bandits carried could be converted into Krona.

However, carrying it all back would be challenging.

Stuffing it into a backpack would make the journey back grueling—the weight alone would be a problem.

And not everything would fit.

"You carry it."

"Do you have a death wish?"

The bickering voices of Ragna and Rem reached his ears.

"Enough," Enkrid interjected.

He turned his gaze to the three bandits they had deliberately spared.

"So, the main group is gone?"

One of the three was crying inconsolably, clearly clueless.

The other two, their eyes darting nervously, seemed more perceptive.

Three mouths. Plenty of opportunities to talk.

"Y-Yes, sir! It’s all over. From what we saw, the place was burning. Looked like they set it ablaze themselves," one of them stammered, sweat dripping from his brow.

The humid weather suggested rain might come in a day or two.

“It won’t spread into a wildfire.”

Although he hadn’t anticipated a full-scale attack, Enkrid knew who had orchestrated it.

The Border Defense Forces. If it was them, they wouldn’t have recklessly set fires to cause chaos.

"And you?"

"A man from the main base said we were doomed and ordered some of us to survive and deliver the news…"

The man trailed off, making it clear he’d fled instead of fighting.

There wasn’t even blood on his weapon—only sweat drenched his trembling hands.

Enkrid surmised that these three were likely the only survivors. Any others scattered through the forest were probably already monster fodder.

"You managed to get this far, huh?"

"There’s a shortcut!"

Two of the bandits, quick to sense Enkrid's interest, blurted out the words without pausing for breath.

The Black Blade Bandits were a group that had endured monster attacks to carve out their territory in the mountains. They turned into horse-riding bandits when roaming the wilderness and became pirates when taking to the seas.

However, there were more infamous groups ruling the seas, and the vast eastern plains left no room for amateur brigands.

Thus, the Black Blade Bandits were effectively the largest bandit group in the inland regions.

Given their long-standing presence in this area, it was no surprise they were well-versed in the local terrain.

"I’m an expert on all the paths!"

When Enkrid showed interest in their claim, another bandit quickly chimed in.

"That beast-woman knows nothing! She still thinks she’s some kind of mercenary, the foolish wench—"

His unnecessary prattling trailed off.

"Let’s talk about this in the city."

Enkrid made the decision to hand the bandits over to the authorities in the city. They could decide whether to execute, imprison, or punish them as they saw fit.

"Ah…"

One of the bandits let out a short groan, realizing that his end might not be anything short of tragic.

"P-Please…"

The desperation in his voice prompted Enkrid to grant him a rare moment of mercy.

"Shall I finish it here instead?"

The bandit’s eyes darted around wildly.

"N-No, sir!"

After that, they continued looting the corpses, stuffing their spoils into makeshift sacks made from torn clothes of the deceased. Weapons, tools, and anything of value were packed away.

Then came the task of digging graves.

"You dig too," Enkrid ordered.

Meanwhile, Ragna cut the restraints from Dunbakel’s wrists. Their agreement had been clear—once the task was over, she would be released.

Enkrid didn’t concern himself further with the beastwoman.

By the time the three surviving bandits had dug enough graves to bury the corpses, night had fallen.

"Should we camp here?"

"No need," Enkrid decided. "We’ll march through the night."

"Agreed," Rem and Ragna responded without complaint.

They loaded the gathered loot onto a cart they had found along the way. Since there were no horses to pull it, the three bandits were made to haul the cart themselves.

It was less a cart now and more of a "man-cart."

Clank, clank.

The criminals wheezed and panted as they dragged the cart over rough terrain in the dead of night. Dunbakel followed behind, pushing the cart from time to time.

Enkrid considered letting the beastwoman go. She didn’t have the same sinister air as the bandits.

Her desire to live was genuine, and her attitude was surprisingly honest and straightforward.

Not that it mattered to him. He had already decided to release her, and he would stick to that decision.

What mattered more was getting back to the company and reporting to Marcus.

The journey back to the city took far longer than the outbound trip. They lacked horses, their load had increased, and the bandits pulling the cart slowed them down.

When they finally reached the city gates:

"Who goes there?"

A soldier on the gallery called down. Behind him, three archers had arrows trained on them, their movements more cautious than usual.

"Enkrid, captain of the Independent Company," he announced his affiliation.

The soldier’s torchlight flickered, and a voice responded from above.

"It’s you?"

It was Venzance. Soon after, the side door to the gate opened, allowing them to enter.

While unloading the goods from the cart, Venzance came down to meet them.

"What is all this? Did you raid a hideout? Turn to banditry yourself?"

"Not banditry—just a counter-raid," Enkrid replied.

Winners take the spoils. It was a basic rule of the battlefield.

While the haul might have been excessive for a single raid, Enkrid’s words weren’t untrue.

Venzance tilted his head, unconvinced. Enkrid had no time for lengthy explanations.

"Why so on edge?"

After all, he had only been away from the city for a full day.

The tension in the air was palpable, even in that short absence.

"You’ll hear everything from the battalion commander. Go straight to him," Venzance replied curtly.

His tone suggested he wasn’t offering more details because Enkrid hadn’t shared everything with him earlier.

"Pettiness suits you," Enkrid quipped with a smirk before heading inside.

Rem and Ragna trailed behind, escorting the three bandits to their destination.

"Take care of them," Rem said to a soldier, gesturing to the bandits.

"Who are these guys?"

"Black Blade Bandits."

The name prompted a visible reaction.

Why are they here?

Venzance blinked in surprise as the white-haired beastwoman followed silently behind Rem and Ragna.

Should I stop her?

Seeing no objections from Enkrid’s group, he let it go.

After sending them off, Venzance turned to one of his subordinates and asked in a careful tone:

"Am I really petty?"

The subordinate gulped. Honesty was a virtue, but sometimes a white lie was the greater one.

"Not at all, sir. You’re bold—normal, even," he said, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to call Venzance "bold."

That would’ve been a step too far for his conscience.

After all, wasn’t it obvious Venzance was petty? Anyone would be, especially after seething with jealousy over Enkrid’s popularity with women.

"Right? I’m not that petty, am I?"

The subordinate nodded wisely, a prudent response.

***

Standing before the battalion commander, Enkrid voiced the question that had been weighing on his mind.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Even if he had known, it wouldn’t have caused any significant issues—if anything, he might have been able to respond more proactively.

Marcus widened his eyes as if the answer were obvious, then spoke.

"Captain Enkrid, you’re terrible at acting."

Had Marcus been observing Enkrid’s acting all this time?

No, that wasn’t it. He must have drawn his conclusion from Enkrid’s usual manner of speaking and demeanor. Upon hearing the remark, Enkrid had to admit to himself:

"If you’re going to deceive someone, start with your allies."

It was a basic tenet of strategy.

"And what would you have done if I ended up in danger?"

"Didn’t I send Rem and Ragna with you?"

A brief silence followed. Right, the situation hadn’t been all that risky.

"Why is the atmosphere in the city like this?"

Enkrid shifted the topic smoothly, and it was the Fairy Company Commander who answered, having taken a seat nearby.

"There were two attempts by reconnaissance teams, four incidents involving infiltrators trying to scale the walls, and three attempts by disguised enemies to pass through the gates."

This wasn’t all in a single day but rather a summary of events over time.

"Who?"

"Do I really need to tell you?"

The Fairy Commander’s rhetorical question prompted Enkrid to drop the pretense of ignorance.

"Martaï."

Marcus responded to the answer.

"Correct. Martaï has declared war."

Was it impeccable timing?

No, it was likely a preemptive move before the moment they’d been anticipating passed.

Within just a single day, a significant event had erupted in the city.

Another war.

This time, it wasn’t an international conflict but a city-to-city skirmish.

The battle was between Martaï and the Border Guard.

In such a scenario, even if reinforcements from the central government were available, they couldn’t be deployed.

Martaï wouldn’t have acted without preparing a plausible pretext, and their leaders were unlikely to be fools.

"They sent falsified documents claiming that the Border Guard’s territory had been part of Martaï’s domain since the previous generation," Marcus said, chuckling with a mix of irritation and disbelief.

"So we sent them a similar document in return."

The Fairy Commander smirked. Their retaliation had been to forge documents asserting the opposite—that the contested land had always belonged to the Border Guard.

It was practically a war of fabricated official records.

"A clever response," Enkrid thought, though he wondered why they were sharing all this with him in such detail.

"I look forward to seeing you on the battlefield," Marcus said, his gaze carrying an intensity that went beyond seriousness. There was something almost reverent in his eyes, but Enkrid didn’t find it unpleasant.

"Let’s have some fun out there."

The Fairy Commander added their usual whimsical humor.

"Should we call it a ‘honeymoon war’?"

"Are you getting married again, Commander?"

Enkrid countered with a human-style jab, drawing a hearty laugh from Marcus.

Behind the nickname "Warmonger" hid a shrewd strategist, a man unafraid of the looming conflict.

He clearly had something he was relying on, and Enkrid couldn’t help but be curious about what it was.

After finishing his report and heading back to the barracks, he paused just before entering.

"Aren’t you leaving?"

Dunbakel, who had been silently following him, came to a stop.

Standing outside the barracks, she looked out of place. Why hadn’t anyone stopped her?

With a war on the horizon, discipline in the camp seemed lax.

Thinking this, Enkrid turned to face her.

Dunbakel, gathering her resolve, opened her mouth to speak.

Her voice, low and husky with the distinct timbre of a beastwoman, was undeniably feminine.

"I have something to say."