“Cavalry, a detached unit, and a group in shabby cloaks,” Jaxon reported, carrying out Enkrid’s orders with precision.

He observed the rear of the enemy’s formation and marked their positions on the military map with remarkable accuracy.

The map was neat and clear, almost artistic in its presentation—easy to interpret, easy to use.

From this, Enkrid deduced what he had just muttered.

A portion of the cavalry had been held in reserve, a fierce-looking detachment numbering roughly a company, and five individuals in cloaks.

Only five of them had been noticed by Jaxon, which meant they weren’t ordinary.

Intuition and instinct.

Jaxon described what he saw, and Enkrid didn’t disregard his observations.

“What do you think?”

Enkrid, arms crossed, asked Jaxon as he returned.

Jaxon was brushing dust off his armor, flicking it into the air where it floated briefly before settling on the ground.

Though the day was still warm, far from the coolness of autumn, Jaxon wasn’t sweating profusely.

Was this an easy task for him, or was he simply maintaining composure? Enkrid pondered idly as he awaited the response.

“I think they’re mages.”

Five mages.

Martai’s preparations were proving formidable.

What was the best move now? Enkrid didn’t know, so he directed his question to Kraiss.

“Alright, what do you think we should do next?”

His tone carried a surprising confidence despite not knowing the answer. As always, he stuck to his principle: If you don’t know, push your subordinates for answers.

“Do you think we’d lose if we engaged them directly?”

“Big-Eyes” Enkrid countered the question with another.

He reflected on the level of the enemy soldiers, what he had observed, and the strength of his own forces.

They wouldn’t lose.

Besides, hadn’t they gone out of their way to stage this performance to obscure their true strength?

Audin hadn’t fought seriously, and Enkrid hadn’t turned his “tap” into a “thud.”

“This was planned from the start for an open-field battle. Fighting in the city would result in unimaginable losses,” Kraiss said, his eyes gleaming.

Enkrid understood. The decision rested with the battalion commander. Whether or not to proceed with a full-scale battle was their call.

Externally, it would appear that they were taking a risky move by opening the gates and engaging the enemy head-on.

“I’ll go report this.”

Enkrid immediately headed to the command tent and relayed the situation to Marcus.

“This will be fun, fiancé,” the Fairy Company Commander interjected with a cheeky nickname.

Amusingly, no one corrected him.

Everyone, from the first company commander to the other officers—even Marcus’s adjutant—seemed to ignore the comment, accustomed to the commander’s quirks.

The adjutant, who also acted as a scribe, diligently recorded notes, though Enkrid wondered idly if the word “fiancé” would make it into the report.

The irreverent nickname was inconsequential amidst the more important discussions.

“The detached unit in the rear is under our control,” said the Border Guard commander, stepping up assertively.

Marcus, as expected, smiled broadly as he gave his order.

“Open the gates.”

Seeing Marcus’s confidence, Enkrid couldn’t help but question it.

No matter how much faith Marcus had in their plan, wasn’t this going too far?

“By most standards, this would be considered a suicidal move, wouldn’t it?”

The disparity in forces was evident. Engaging the enemy in chaotic melee under such circumstances was sheer madness. Any commander who attempted such a strategy would be ridiculed as a fool.

Marcus turned his gaze to Enkrid and asked, “Do you think that’s the case?”

Enkrid shook his head in response.

“No, I don’t.”

How could he?

With comrades like Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Jaxon on his side, Enkrid felt no fear.

An open battlefield with clear adversaries was far more comfortable than the confusion of urban warfare.

Not that he would find urban combat particularly daunting, either.

More importantly—

“I don’t think we’ll lose.”

This thought came to him unbidden.

Enkrid could assess the balance of power and read the flow of battle. It was a skill he had honed for survival.

“I introduced myself, told them to retreat, and yet they remained. I believe it’s time to show them,” Marcus said with a gentle smile.

The repeated references to Enkrid’s initial declaration made it clear that it had left an impression on Marcus.

Enkrid nodded.

“I’ll take the vanguard.”

The place he had always dreamed of—at the front of the battlefield.

Now, he was ready to stand there.

No one would stop him.

Sword in hand, Enkrid stepped out in front of the open gates.

The troops might have felt uneasy, but—

“The troublemaker’s leading the charge?”

“Then it’s settled.”

No one voiced their doubts.

The Martai forces, unfamiliar with Enkrid’s unit, remained oblivious to the threat they faced.

Had they encountered the Mad Squad before, they would have adjusted their strategy the moment they learned of their involvement.

Instead, Martai’s forces were complacent, viewing the situation as nothing more than a futile rebellion.

This complacency was thanks to Marcus’s clever deception.

At least Kraiss saw it as a political victory—or perhaps a triumph of cunning.

The calculated dissemination of misinformation, alternately exaggerating and downplaying the Mad Squad’s prowess, had worked.

In the end, all that mattered was winning, whether through strategy, politics, or trickery.

“Why wasn’t it an open battle from the start?” Rem asked as she moved forward.

“Waiting almost killed me from boredom.”

Kraiss reflected silently.

The unexpected success in destroying the siege weapons and disrupting supply lines wasn’t just a matter of luck. It was a deliberate strategy to irritate and provoke the enemy into a rash response.

Because the longer the fight dragged on, the more the side with fewer numbers suffered.

And Martai had allies in nearby noble forces, while they had burned bridges with groups like the Black Blade mercenaries and even clashed with the Sacred Sect.

Extending the battle would only expose more vulnerabilities.

From the start, Kraiss had planned for a decisive confrontation—a single battle to end it all.

But that required all of the enemy’s attention to be focused on them.

“Just because,” Kraiss muttered, giving Rem no further explanation.

Enkrid understood with minimal words, but explaining to Rem would have been a drawn-out affair. Sometimes, silence was the best approach.

“Damn it,” Rem muttered with a smirk, sensing why Kraiss held back but feeling no resentment. All she cared about was having the chance to swing her axe.

Kraiss trusted his squad. Their strength would become something unstoppable.

Still, a sliver of unease lingered—part of his nature, one he couldn’t shake.

Marcus shared that unease.

Despite being the commander, he was armored and positioned among the infantry. While he stayed at the rear with a protective unit, he was still part of the action.

Marcus’s gaze swept the battlefield, knowing Enkrid’s actions at the vanguard would determine the course of this battle.

“It’s terrifying,” he thought, but what other choice was there?

“This is nerve-wracking,” his adjutant said aloud.

For a moment, Marcus thought the man had read his mind.

But he showed no reaction, instead responding with feigned confidence.

“Is it?”

“Do you think this will work?”

“Of course.”

The words came out with absolute certainty. A commander must always project confidence.

As Marcus watched, the enemy’s main force began to move, their formation tightening as they advanced.

“Forward!”

The shout from their vanguard leader resounded, and the Martai troops stepped forward in unison.

“Hah!”

A collective war cry reverberated, the sound heavy enough to rattle the air. Dust seemed to surge toward them.

Their discipline and unity exuded an aura that could crush the spirits of those who faced them.

But the Border Guard troops weren’t weaklings.

They had fought on mountains, in rivers, against monsters, and even Azpen’s forces. These were hardened veterans, unyielding in the face of adversity.

“Advance!”

The third company commander’s voice carried authority, his commands sharp and resonant. The Border Guard forces stepped forward in response.

Tap.

“Hah!”

Their war cry answered, and their unity mirrored the enemy’s.

Meanwhile, Enkrid and the Mad Squad moved forward, steadily closing the gap.

The moment for chaotic melee approached, but something stirred at the front of the enemy ranks.

From the space between the two forces, something charged forward.

The timing was absurd—a masterpiece of tactical brilliance.

As both armies hesitated, gauging each other, a sudden charge broke the silence.

Thud, thud, thud, thud!

The ground trembled as heavily armored cavalry surged forward, their horses clad in plates of light iron covering their heads and shoulders.

Dust rose in waves as lances gleamed, aimed at the heart of the formation.

Marcus had anticipated their cavalry’s position, keeping scouts in constant rotation. But these weren’t ordinary troops—they were part of the concealed forces reported by the Mad Squad.

The enemy’s hidden dagger was now hurtling toward the main force.

And directly in their path stood the Mad Squad.

“They’ll be trampled!” the adjutant shouted.

Marcus thought the man had stolen his line again, though he would never have voiced it himself. A commander must never spread fear among their troops.

Thud, thud, thud, thud!

The sound of galloping cavalry filled the air, their speed terrifying. Against a cavalry charge, infantry were like brittle branches, shattering on impact.

Marcus believed in Enkrid and the Mad Squad, trusted in their strength.

But could even they hold against this charge?

Martai’s forces had played their hidden hand, and it was devastating.

For the first time, Marcus felt as if they had truly been caught off guard.

***

The commander of Viscount Bentra's forces declared he would personally lead the charge.

Greg protested, but it was futile.

“Breaking the enemy’s morale and crushing their spirit from the start is the foundation of warfare.”

This wasn’t the strategy of a mere city defender—it was the approach of a noble leading cavalry.

There was a difference between a rural infantry commander and someone of his caliber.

Even Greg had to admit it.

The noble’s strategy was more efficient, more effective, and far deadlier.

Thus, the commander of Viscount Bentra’s forces unleashed his cavalry.

Fifty elite riders.

They weren’t heavy cavalry designed for devastating charges, but they were still cavalry.

Ordinarily, their strategy involved flanking the enemy to carve away their formation. Today, however, the opponent was infantry.

Even a frontal charge favored the cavalry—it was simply the nature of battle. Infantry could only hope to counter with long spears, but this cavalry unit was specialized for dealing with such tactics.

“We’ll sweep away the insolent Border Guard peasants head-on. Any objections?”

The fifty cavalrymen responded in unison, their voices booming:

“None!”

“Let’s go.”

With a snort from the horses, the unit began galloping toward their calculated charge distance.

Was this difficult?

No.

As the horses surged forward, the commander thought to himself:

“Foolish bastard.”

He remembered his time supporting a frontier village.

“Enkrid’s wall? What nonsense.”

Back then, he resolved that if he ever encountered this boastful man, he would crush him.

At first, he had only intended to cut out Enkrid’s tongue. Now, it seemed he would take his head instead.

The cavalry unit was lightly armored, favoring mobility. The riders avoided heavy gear and preferred glaives as their weapons. This unit had earned the nickname “Spear-Catching Cavalry” for their expertise in neutralizing infantry spears.

By attaching the spear handles to their saddles and side armor, they could slash through infantry formations while maintaining their speed. The momentum of their charge, combined with the blade, created a devastating cutting force.

This was their specialty: slashing and carving through anything in their path as they rode.

Ahead of them, fewer than ten infantrymen stood—an appetizer.

Their true target was the enemy’s main force.

Carving through the vanguard would merely be a prelude to their intended devastation.

The commander felt a rush of excitement, an intoxicating mix of adrenaline and anticipation.

They were on horseback, while the enemy marched on foot.

It was a clear advantage, a battlefield where victory seemed inevitable.

How could he not be exhilarated?

His blood boiled, his heart pounded, and he shouted:

“To hell with their walls!”

The cry echoed from the depths of his soul.