“That bastard?”

Separate from the roaring cheers of the Naurillia army, several of Martai's commanders felt their anger flare uncontrollably.

“He’s asking for it! Kill that bastard!”

Sure, they could admit he fought well—but damn it, how could he keep up such composure while retreating?

It was, for lack of a better word, infuriating. It felt like he was deliberately mocking them, reenacting some heroic epic just to taunt them.

How could they not lose their tempers?

“Chase him down!”
“Don’t let him through!”
“Destroy him!”
“Stop! Stop right there, you son of a bitch!”

Martai’s infantry, now riled up, charged forward in a frenzy.

Just as Enkrid and his group hurriedly dashed inside the gates—

Thud, thud, thud, thwack!

Naurillia’s archers atop the ramparts sprang into action, their hands moving with remarkable precision and speed.

“Aaagh!”
“Arrows incoming! Shields! Raise your shields!”

The advancing Martai infantry quickly found themselves retreating, their ranks now adorned with arrows.

“Fire! Fire! Hit them all!”

Venzance’s commanding voice boomed across the walls. He had been tasked with overseeing a portion of the archers and was now leading them effectively.

As the Martai infantry fell back—

“Waaaah!”

The garrison troops stationed atop the fortress walls erupted into cheers. The unexpected exchange of blows in the first skirmish felt like a small victory in their favor.

“Come at us!”
“Run if you value your lives!”
“My name is Lian! Remember it!”

Amid the chaotic taunts, one soldier even shouted his name for all to hear.

While it wasn’t exactly a glorious triumph, it was a promising start to a battle.

Despite their enemy’s superior numbers and the clear gap in strength, the soldiers began to feel a strange sense of confidence.

It felt like they wouldn’t lose.

Most of them had this intuition—and the man responsible for creating this atmosphere was undoubtedly Enkrid.

Naturally, every gaze turned toward him as he strode in, exuding an air of calm indifference.

***

The Destruction of the Mangonels and the Actions of a Few Soldiers

The news had already reached the commander of the Martai forces, even before he received the full report. After all, the events had unfolded right before his eyes.

A roughly hammered helmet sat atop his head, and from the gap in his visor, a mustached face emerged as he absentmindedly twisted and plucked at his whiskers. His eyes gleamed with a chilling light.

“An interesting bastard, isn’t he?”

His tone carried a frosty, lethal edge.

His nickname was The Blade That Cuts Elites.

Until now, he had thought this battle dull and uninspiring, but now he spotted adversaries who made his heart race.

‘At least three of them.’

They were worth killing personally. In his mind, plans began to form—methods and means to execute them.

‘A chaotic skirmish would be ideal.’

And if they tried to defend themselves by hiding behind the walls? That would only make it easier to encircle and crush them.

It was a tantalizingly intriguing scenario.

The destruction of the mangonels? The ambush and the subsequent casualties? Those were someone else’s concerns.

Though The Blade That Cuts Elites dismissed these events as irrelevant, the actual commander of the bannerless troops—the one leading the operation—thought differently.

“That damned bastard.”

The commander of the Viscount Bentra forces was no fool. Narrow-minded, perhaps, but not stupid.

‘He stops mid-retreat just to announce his name?’

That took guts.

Not only had they managed to destroy eight mangonels right at the outset, giving the Martai forces the sense of being on the back foot, but they also retreated while loudly declaring their identity.

He focused on the facts.

Why? Why would someone do such a thing?

Drawing from his experience and strategic knowledge, the commander reached what he believed to be the most rational conclusion.

‘That bastard?’

It was a cheap trick—a strategy. What else could those cornered and desperate resort to?

It was one of the oldest tactics in the book.

Inflating oneself.

A dirty little ploy, aimed at exaggerating one’s abilities to sow doubt and hesitation in the enemy’s mind.

The tactic leveraged the possibility that a small but elite group could turn the tide of a battle.

The message was clear: “We’re strong. Think twice before attacking.”

But were they truly that formidable?

While the destruction of the mangonels was impressive—

‘That’s all.’

It had to be a stretch, no doubt. A reckless gambit with their lives on the line.

They’d probably spent days in ambush, waiting for the perfect moment, and expended significant resources for this one strike.

Most likely, the plan had been devised well before the Martai army began their advance.

“It’s just puffery.”

Having reached his conclusion, the commander of the Viscount Bentra forces stated his assessment.

The Martai general fell into thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

They had come to the same conclusion.

“Bring in more siege weapons.”

The general’s voice was firm. There were already additional weapons under construction back in the city.

Even if hastily made, they’d be better than having nothing.

“Repair whatever can be fixed.”

They might be able to salvage one or two of the damaged siege engines with some repairs.

But those with misaligned axes or shattered parts were beyond saving.

‘That monstrous bastard.’

The one who had smashed the siege engines with his bare hands—it was hard to ignore him.

‘He must have taken some kind of drug.’

Perhaps he had consumed one of those concoctions made by the alchemists—the kind that granted explosive strength to take down giants or Frokk.

The drug provided a brief burst of superhuman strength, but the side effects were severe—so severe that improper use could lead to death as soon as its effects wore off.

Prejudice, bias, and preconceptions—once rooted in the mind, they were like demons, difficult to banish.

This group was no exception.

Even The Blade That Cuts Elites respected his opponent’s strength, but only to the extent that they seemed like worthy prey for him to kill.

Everyone was entitled to their delusions.

“We’ll encircle them and starve them out.”

The commander of the Bentra forces clenched his fist as he spoke. With their inflated bravado, their enemy would likely hunker down and focus on defense.

But if they dared to come out?

As the leader of the cavalry, he had a simple and effective solution—sweep them away with a mounted charge.

It was straightforward but efficient.

Whether their opponents puffed themselves up or not, it didn’t matter.

“Let’s do it.”

The Martai general shared the same sentiment.

***

From his vantage point atop the fortress wall, Kraiss studied the movements of the enemy forces below.

“They’re mad,” he thought.

The shouting and the restless murmur among the troops were evident. Even after losing eight siege engines and a significant number of men, what they displayed wasn’t fear but anger. Their fighting spirit and determination remained unbroken.

They even directed their fury at Enkrid and his party, who had just retreated behind the gates.

How could they manage to stay so defiant?

“The battle was too brief,” Kraiss reasoned.

The skirmish had been far too short. While Enkrid and his group displayed impressive combat skills, only a few had witnessed it firsthand.

“And then there was the commander’s parting words…”

Enkrid’s final taunt, where he declared his name and told them to back off, had been striking.

It wasn’t something that would make an enemy retreat—not if they’d already advanced this far. But as a calculated provocation, it was perfect.

It was just enough to make the enemy misjudge them.

“If I were them…”

Kraiss momentarily imagined himself in the shoes of the enemy commander.

Repeating “If I were them” under his breath, he carefully observed their movements.

From the wall, he could see the enemy forces regrouping.

Though they had been caught off guard, they weren’t retreating. Though shaken, there was no fear in their ranks.

They were reorganizing their formation. Even during their retreat, their movements had been orderly. It was the sign of a disciplined and well-trained army.

Their morale and fighting spirit hadn’t wavered.

“They’re underestimating us.”

That confidence stemmed from their belief that they held the advantage.

And why wouldn’t they feel confident?

They had superior numbers, rigorous training, and even reinforcements beyond what they probably needed.

Adding to that was the story of Enkrid’s skill—a tale that Marcus had deliberately tried to downplay, though it had still spread among the enemy ranks.

“Do they think it’s all bravado? That we’re puffing ourselves up out of fear?”

It was possible. While Kraiss couldn’t be certain, it seemed likely.

If only the guilds like Gilpin were more prominent, they could’ve gathered intelligence on the enemy commander’s name or tendencies. But such ambitions would turn a modest mercenary guild into a full-fledged intelligence agency—a shift Kraiss wasn’t particularly interested in.

“That would double the workload.”

The current balance was just right: enough to make a decent living without being overwhelmed.

Kraiss finished organizing his thoughts. The enemy commander hadn’t yet grasped the true strength of their side, while they, on the other hand, had a particularly sharp blade to wield.

“It’d be nice if they’re fools,” Kraiss mused.

Not just fools, but the kind who cling to their assumptions and refuse to reconsider them—confirmation bias in its purest form.

If that were the case, they wouldn’t need any elaborate strategy.

All of this was the result of Enkrid’s seemingly whimsical decision to step forward, destroy the mangonels, and retreat without showing the full extent of their capabilities.

Had Enkrid engaged further and revealed more of their strength, the situation might have turned out differently.

“Did the commander plan all of this?”

That was a question Kraiss could always ask later.

“What are you mumbling about?”

Venzance, who had been directing the archers, asked as he noticed Kraiss muttering to himself. The sight made him wonder if the man had been possessed by some kind of evil spirit.

Venzance hated ghosts and spirits—they were the reason he often struggled to sleep at night.

“Just organizing my thoughts,” Kraiss replied.

“Is that so?”

Venzance doubted anything would come of Kraiss’s musings, but he let it go.

Unbeknownst to him, Kraiss’s mind was already sketching out the battlefield’s future.

A scenario to secure victory was unfolding thread by thread in his thoughts.

Yet Kraiss had no intention of sharing it just yet.

He trusted that everyone else would figure it out on their own.

***

"Are You Okay?"

As they entered the Border Guard's gates, Rem glanced at Enkrid and asked, "You alright?"

Enkrid took a quick moment to check himself over. Any injuries? No, there weren’t any. Not that he’d expected any—it hadn’t been that kind of fight.

It had been more of a warm-up.

Why else would he have done it? Even though the operation had been improvised, it felt manageable, which was why he’d gone ahead.

Martai’s forces likely assumed it had been a carefully planned ambush, one that took days of preparation and significant resources.

The truth? It wasn’t.

It had just felt doable, so he’d gone for it—half for the sake of stretching his legs.

“I think your head’s injured,” Rem said with an uncharacteristically serious tone, his face devoid of its usual teasing expression.

Even Ragna turned his gaze toward Enkrid, and soon Audin and Finn followed suit.

"You running a fever?" Finn asked finally.

Enkrid sighed, saddened by how these comrades lacked even a shred of romanticism in their hearts. He knew exactly why they were reacting like this.

It was because of his decision to declare his name at the end.

“I was just feeling bold,” Enkrid said bluntly, seeing no point in hiding the truth.

Rem, instead of mocking him as usual, let out an amused “Hoooh.”

“Wooooooah!”

A roar of cheers erupted from the soldiers as Enkrid’s unit returned.

After all, they had gone out and obliterated the enemy's siege weapons—it was only natural.

Amid the triumphant cheers—

“Boldness, huh.”

Ragna muttered, lost in thought, his expression contemplative.

Enkrid, meanwhile, had acted purely on impulse.

Before he knew it, Kraiss was approaching from the gallery, having climbed down from the walls.

“The taunt, planting doubts in their minds—was that intentional…? No, I guess not. But then, why declare your name?”

It wasn’t the first time someone had asked about the name reveal.

Enkrid repeated himself with a shrug. “Boldness. It just felt right.”

“That’s a bit… Hmm, I see. Cool, I guess.” Kraiss nodded, though his tone betrayed some hesitation.

As Enkrid passed Kraiss, he came upon the gathered group of allied commanders.

“You destroyed all the siege weapons?” Marcus asked, his face faintly twitching with what might have been a smirk.

Enkrid gave a calm nod.

“Good job!” Marcus exclaimed, and that was the end of it.

As Marcus began rallying the troops, a whimsical voice sidled in from the side.

“My name is Shinar. If you come closer, you can have me.”

It was the Pixie Company Commander, up to their usual antics.

“Are you hurt in the head?” Enkrid asked dryly.

“Nope! I’m perfectly healthy. Unless you’re into frail little girls, that is?”

Deciding there was no point in continuing the conversation, Enkrid shook his head and stepped away.

Marcus’s booming voice echoed over the troops.

“Stay vigilant!”
“We will win this!”

The timing was perfect. With Enkrid returning as the hero of the hour, morale was soaring.

Cheers erupted again, shaking the fortress walls. The war was only beginning, but spirits were higher than ever.

The day had barely begun when Kraiss approached Enkrid, who had just finished his morning training session.

“You’re going out again today, aren’t you?” Kraiss asked.

Even in the middle of war, Enkrid insisted on training. Some of the soldiers watching could only shake their heads in disbelief.

Those who knew him well, however, simply accepted it.

“Where to?” Enkrid asked.

“Outside.”

“Why?”

Kraiss blinked as if the answer were obvious.

“To keep the pressure on, of course.”

Seeing Enkrid’s questioning look, Kraiss added, “Did the battalion commander not say anything?”

Enkrid nodded. Marcus had told him to rest well and fight well when the time came. If he needed anything, he was free to ask.

There had been no complaints about Enkrid’s unsanctioned ambush—it had been a success, after all. Marcus had always given Enkrid that level of autonomy.

“Do the opposite of what the enemy expects,” Kraiss declared loudly.

Enkrid stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

“The siege weapons are destroyed. They’ll be thinking long-term now—repairs, replacements, fortifying their positions. The advantage is theirs if they take their time. They’ve got solid supply lines and reinforcements.”

So, what was the plan for today?

To Kraiss, it was obvious. But he was surprised no one else had said it yet.

“We hit their supply lines.”

The simplest principle of strategy and warfare: starve the enemy.

Of course, they couldn’t literally starve them out, but they could disrupt their supplies and make things difficult.

Easier said than done, especially since the enemy wasn’t stupid—they’d be expecting trouble.

But with Enkrid’s squad—Mad Platoon—it wasn’t impossible.

“Operating outside their expectations is what an irregular force does best.”

There were fewer than ten of them. They could slip out and strike.

“Meow.”

At some point, Esther had appeared by Enkrid’s side, staring at him intently.

After listening to Kraiss’s suggestion, Enkrid nodded.

“Not a bad idea. Let’s do it.”

He glanced at Esther. “Coming along?”

The leopard-like creature rose silently and settled beside him.

That night, the plan was set in motion.

“Kraiss, go report to command. Tell them we’re taking a little midnight stroll.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Enkrid prepared his gear. Beside him, Rem, Jaxon, and a few others did the same.

“Audin, you’re staying here.”

“Understood, brother. I’ll hold the fort.”

Audin was too large and conspicuous. Finn and Ragna were also left behind—Finn because it was risky, and Ragna because she had a tendency to get lost. The last thing they needed was for her to earn the nickname Battlefield Straggler.

“Rem, Jaxon.”

“Got it. And we’re taking the stray cat, huh? She’s more baggage than help, but fine.”

“Better to leave the dumb barbarian behind,” Jaxon added with a scoff.

Despite their bickering, there were no more reliable companions when it came to actual combat.

Enkrid set off as if he were heading to the market to buy bread.

When he returned, he actually did bring bread.

“This is good,” he remarked casually.

The others, biting into the bread, couldn’t help but agree.

It was delicious—naturally, it had come from the enemy’s supply depot.