What do the opponents bring to the battlefield?

Some soldiers were deeply immersed in their thrusting techniques.

Others excelled at wielding their spears like clubs, gripping the shaft mid-way.

Another group, lacking physical strength, compensated by exploiting openings with sharp precision.

These were innate talents, realms of natural ability.

However, their training was incomplete.

Their endurance was lacking, and their strength even more so.

While their reaction speed wasn’t bad, that was all they had going for them.

Each soldier brought their own style, shaped by their training and practice. Despite wielding the same weapon, their methods differed vastly.

Enkrid observed it all.

The trembling spear tips, the darting eyes.

The habitual tendency to step forward with the left foot.

A soldier who had clumsily learned the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship, feigning a stumble to deceive their opponent.

Among them were soldiers who bore clear signs of relentless training.

If there was anything more fearsome than overwhelming talent, it was this:

Crunch.

An enemy soldier, his fingers severed, still clenched his teeth and charged forward.

Their courage, determination, and resolve were on a different level. Their bloodshot eyes gleamed with unyielding willpower.

Enkrid never treated a fight casually. He never underestimated an opponent.

Concealing one’s full strength was one thing; wielding his blade with sincerity was another.

When he shifted his stance in response to an approaching spearhead, the enemy discarded their spear and lunged at him, attempting to overpower him with brute force.

Recalling the battlefield where he had earned the Heart of the Beast, Enkrid bent his knees, braced himself, and caught the charging soldier on his back.

With a powerful motion, he flipped the soldier over and hurled him through the air.

The soldier flew with a whoosh before landing shoulder-first and tumbling across the ground.

The Heart of the Beast.

A strong heart outmatches raw talent.

Enkrid once again reflected on how essential the Heart of the Beast was to him.

Not that he’d ever forgotten.

How could he, when every day he repeated everything he’d learned?

How could he forget, when he constantly reviewed and reinforced his skills, step by step, while anchored in the present?

Even as the skirmish continued, Enkrid’s eyes tracked every movement of the soldiers.

“Twist the body on the left foot and deliver a strike.”

One soldier wielded a spear with a technique akin to a single-handed thrust, but then released it mid-motion to create a javelin-like throw.

It was an unexpected and creative attack.

Still, it wasn’t threatening. Their timing didn’t match his.

He possessed the Heart of the Beast, a razor-sharp focus, the instinct for evasion, and a body honed through isolation techniques.

The soldier’s skill was impressive, but Enkrid’s body reacted before his mind could process the attack.

The analysis was over. All that remained was to absorb their techniques and efforts into his own repertoire.

Time was the only requirement now.

As he retreated, he glanced back. The thick black smoke rising over the supply base was faint.

Though they had set fires, the enemy had extinguished them quickly.

Thus, the raid hadn’t caused significant damage, but the perception of being struck despite their defenses would linger.

And even if the tangible impact was minimal, the very act of fire touching their supply base was a blow in itself.

Escaping was not difficult.

“Krr.”

Esther walked lightly by his side, her steps unusually buoyant.

These days, the leopard rarely leapt into his arms unless it was time to sleep.

As they ran, Esther glanced up at him from below, her large, clear eyes catching his attention.

Or were her eyes larger than before?

“Kyarr.”

The leopard seemed to ask what he was looking at.

If this companion were human, she would rival Rem in temper, no doubt.

“It’s nothing,” Enkrid replied, brushing it off as he would with Rem.

“Over there!”

Voices shouted from behind as they pushed through the brush—a group of soldiers pursuing them.

Enkrid listened to the voices and gauged the distance.

This was a skill he had picked up from Jaxon: seeing with sound.

Using his heightened senses, he calculated the location and distance of his pursuers. Escaping them wouldn’t be an issue.

He had room to breathe. But even as he felt confident, his mind lingered on the enemy’s behavior.

Among the soldiers was a squad leader who, despite the chaos, demonstrated a sharp mind.

“Bring the net!”

The leader’s voice commanded, aiming to ensnare both Enkrid and Esther.

The order was issued as the leader moved backward, maintaining distance.

Had they intended to kill outright, it might have been troublesome—but it seemed unnecessary for now.

“Shoot!”

Their tactic was clever.

While preparing for the net, they had also readied arrows. The cry for the net had been a diversion.

Still, Enkrid wasn’t caught off guard.

The failed ambush gave him a moment of reflection.

He recalled a snowy day from the past, during the time when his squad was still called a "chaotic mess." It was when they dealt with the Gilpin Guild.

“Give the order, and those capable will carry it out,” Ragna had said then.

Enkrid observed the enemy squad leader, their tactical thinking, and the way the squad moved in unison. He realized that strategy and group tactics were not his strongest areas.

Even so, he recognized the need for something more.

This battle was no different. Defense alone wasn’t the answer. Striking the supply lines like this wasn’t enough.

It was akin to trying to warm frostbitten toes with a brief splash of urine.

So what was the solution?

If I pester Kraiss enough, the answer will come.

Hadn’t he learned that winter day? If he couldn’t do something, he should assign it to someone who could.

Leading a unit wasn’t an easy task.

I couldn’t handle being a battalion commander.

The thought was fleeting and unimportant.

For now, returning to base was all that mattered.

There was no time to master strategy or tactics at the moment. But he couldn’t remain a company commander forever, fighting like this.

I’ll learn, one step at a time.

One could only command effectively by understanding what needed to be ordered.

To lead properly, a knight must grasp the intentions of those around them.

Knights weren’t just fighters; they were leaders responsible for their forces.

And even if that wasn’t the case—

If my lack of preparation causes my allies to die…

The thought was intolerable to Enkrid. Neglecting his own growth and failing his comrades due to complacency wasn’t something he could allow.

***

“Another Hit?”

Olf didn’t explode in anger without reason. His composure remained intact, his gaze sharp.

No one could accuse him of being a dullard.

“Something’s off.”

The raid hadn’t inflicted significant damage. The supply lines were still intact, and only the furnace-side supply base had been struck.

It was merely a disruption, not a critical blow.

This alone wouldn’t sway the tide of the battlefield.

Yet, the fact that these incidents kept happening gnawed at Olf.

“Where is he?”

Olf directed the question to Greg, the assault commander. The sweat dripping from Greg’s brow betrayed his discomfort as he replied:

“We lost him.”

Greg, the assault captain, was not one to let enemies escape easily. His troops specialized in relentless pursuit and overpowering engagements.

Even before tales of Enkrid had spread, Greg had earned his fearsome reputation, singlehandedly wiping out two colonies.

In the world of military renown—categorized by villages, cities, and continents—Greg was undoubtedly city-level, if not more.

Under his command, perhaps one or two men might surpass him, but only barely.

“Lost him?”

Even Greg, whose hallmark was charging and overwhelming foes, had failed to capture this enemy.

“Marcus, you madman. What are you plotting now?”

Olf pondered, unable to discern the enemy’s intentions, though it was clear they had one.

The unease in his chest deepened. However, this wasn’t the time for rash outbursts.

“It’s just a clumsy ploy. Besides, we haven’t even shown the full strength of the forces I brought. If we maintain the pressure, they’ll run out of moves.”

The de facto commander of Viscount Bentra’s forces spoke up, his disdain for Enkrid evident at the mere mention of his name.

The man’s youthful face carried a mix of confidence and arrogance, as if his expression alone declared, “I’m better, and I’ll handle it.”

“Inferiority complex?”

No, Olf thought, not for this man. He was a commander of a viscount’s forces, rumored to be the illegitimate child of a noble.

In contrast, Enkrid was a self-made soldier, born and raised on the streets.

Whatever the truth, Olf’s unease lingered.

Still, Olf hadn’t come to this battlefield without a plan.

Naturally, he had contingencies.

For instance, there were the hidden forces brought in by a noble who had erased their coat of arms for secrecy.

As long as there were hidden assets, maintaining the status quo wouldn’t be the worst option.

Time favored Olf’s side.

“We’ll observe for a few more days. Two days to gauge their reaction, and then we’ll resume the assault on the walls.”

Olf determined that this was a time for calm, not anger.

The Fourth Morning

When the fourth morning dawned, Olf had a hearty breakfast: well-toasted bread, fresh cabbage, jerky, dried fruits, and water mixed with wine to cleanse his palate.

Despite the ongoing skirmishes, the overall engagements had been minor.

His forces hadn’t suffered significant losses.

Reason dispelled some of his unease. After wiping his face and donning his armor, Olf prepared for the day when a messenger burst into the command tent.

“General!”

The sudden entrance drew the attention of all the gathered commanders.

“What is it?”

Greg, still on edge from the previous day’s failure, barked the question.

“The enemy is coming out!”

“…What?”

A wave of confusion swept through the room as everyone blinked in disbelief.

“Where are they coming out?”

Second Battalion Commander Zimmer asked.

“They’re emerging outside the city.”

“Why?”

Zimmer’s voice, laden with disbelief, carried words that escaped his chest before he could hold them back.

“...Excuse me?”

How could the messenger possibly know? Zimmer didn’t, either.

“What are they doing out there?”

Greg, his usual rough tone softened by surprise, asked again.

“They’re organizing their ranks.”

The messenger reported what he had seen.

An eerie silence blanketed the command tent, the weight of unspoken questions suffocating the air.

Why would they come out?

Have they lost their minds?

Forming ranks? Do they want a direct confrontation?

Why bother, when the walls still provide an advantage?

Are they marching out to die? What are they relying on?

“This is... interesting.”

One of the nobles without a coat of arms broke the silence.

“Perhaps they’d rather rebel than remain trapped.”

The commander of Viscount Bentra’s forces chimed in. It was difficult to think of any other reason.

But for Olf, the unease he had tried so hard to suppress began spreading like spilled wine on a fine carpet.

Could they retreat now?

If he hesitated here, he’d be the laughingstock for years to come.

Bards might compose songs calling him the Cowardly General.

Sometimes, even in battles with no clear chance of victory, one must take a stand.

And here, it was clear to anyone that his side held the upper hand.

But retreat? Now?

This wasn’t the time to let unease hold him back.

“I’ll deploy the cavalry. Form a spearhead line to block them. If they’ve come for open battle, we’ll oblige!”

Olf’s voice carried his conviction. Whatever their strategy, they had abandoned the advantage of their walls. Crushing their forces would be enough to eliminate his unease.

“Could they have called for reinforcements?”

No, that wasn’t possible. They had surrounded the city immediately after advancing. Even if the defenders had managed to sneak out and send a call for help, who would respond?

Would Count Molsen? Impossible—Molsen had sent unmarked troops to carve up Border Guard for himself.

Would the central army of Naurillia intervene? Less likely than a passing crow plucking out a knight’s eye.

“Let’s move.”

Olf’s order spurred the gathered commanders into action.

“Let me lead the vanguard.”

Greg stepped forward.

“Of course.”

Greg, the Assault Commander, was a warrior few could overpower.

“We’ve fortified the supply lines. Even if this is a feint, they won’t catch us off guard.”

Zimmer added, his meticulous nature ensuring there were no loose ends.

Olf nodded in satisfaction.

Finally, he turned to the Third Battalion Commander, Rattlee, who led the cavalry and scouts.

“Rattlee?”

“We’re ready.”

That wasn’t all.

The hidden cavalry brought by Viscount Bentra’s forces, numbering over fifty, were also prepared.

Now, the question loomed: Who holds the advantage in this battle?

Olf turned his thoughts toward the unseen enemy commander, Marcus.