Jaxon had anticipated that the cavalry wouldn’t venture far before halting. Losing men in droves after a single charge would make any competent commander reconsider.

Thus, rather than engaging directly, Jaxon lowered his stance and began moving.

While everyone’s attention was on the charging cavalry—focused on the clash and the ones repelling it—Jaxon moved toward the spot where the cavalry would likely regroup.

He moved with purpose, predicting the cavalry’s next move.

In a short sprint, under the assumption that he was truly committed, Jaxon was confident that over a short distance, he could almost match a horse’s speed.

And so he did.

As the cavalry commander, pierced through the throat, began to slump in his saddle, Jaxon struck his leg, dislodging his foot from the stirrup. With a deliberate push, he sent the body tumbling to the ground.

Thud.

The commander fell, lifeless.

Jaxon, unfazed, climbed into the vacant saddle. With a few firm pats on the horse’s neck, the agitated beast calmed down.

Without looking back, Jaxon guided the horse back toward Enkrid.

Clip-clop, clip-clop!

The rhythmic sound of hooves echoed sharply amidst the silence.

The remaining cavalry, stunned by the audacity of his actions, hesitated and missed their chance to retaliate.

“That damn stray cat, always stealing the spotlight,” Rem said with a smirk as she watched Jaxon return.

“Crazy barbarian, stick to your mindless brawling,” Jaxon retorted, his expression unreadable as he dismounted.

He slapped the horse’s hindquarters, sending it galloping off in a direction devoid of enemies.

Whinny!

The horse kicked up a plume of dust as it bolted away.

Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, a deadly tension brewed between Rem and Jaxon as their eyes locked.

Enkrid, lost in thought, broke the silence abruptly.

“I can’t help but wonder—wouldn’t it have been better if they hadn’t anchored their lances to the saddles?”

Had they opted to wield the lances freely, they could have simply dropped them if the shafts were struck or broken.

But by attaching the lance’s butt to a loop on their saddles and armor, they had left themselves vulnerable.

Their slow reaction to the first strike seemed to have sealed their fate.

“It would’ve spared them a lot of trouble,” Enkrid concluded.

Rem sighed, exasperated by Enkrid’s constant overanalyzing of the enemy. She responded, her tone dismissive:

“If they’d tried holding the lance without anchoring it, they’d have had to brace their waists against the full force of the horse’s charge. Do you think their backs would hold up?”

Enkrid, with his exceptional conditioning, thought it might be possible.

For others? Untrained, weaker soldiers would likely snap in half under such strain.

Understood.

Enkrid’s point was clear: the enemy’s tactics were too simple, too linear.

Attaching the lance to their saddles worked well against weaker opponents but failed disastrously in this scenario.

Unintentionally, Enkrid had analyzed the core flaw in the enemy cavalry’s strategy.

The glaive-armed cavalry specialized in cutting through vulnerable targets. Against prepared and skilled opponents, they faltered.

“They should’ve trained their strength instead of relying on anchored lances,” Enkrid muttered to himself, noting the lesson.

This realization brought a small spark of satisfaction to his eyes.

The remaining cavalry, however, were undeterred.

“Charge! Kill them all!”

It took a certain kind of courage—or madness—to regroup and charge again after such a devastating loss.

Enkrid raised his sword and faced the charging cavalry once more.

Having already broken one charge, he saw no reason he couldn’t do it again.

The previous engagement wasn’t the result of luck—it had been skill, plain and simple.

“A damned antlion pit,” Marcus remarked as he observed the unfolding chaos.

Meanwhile, on the enemy’s side, Commander Olf watched the charging cavalry falter. Though he cursed their foolishness, he quickly made a decision.

Retreating now would be idiotic.

“Advance!”

The Martai infantry stepped forward, marking the beginning of a full-scale melee.

Before the infantry could fully engage, the remaining cavalry scattered, leaving behind a trail of carnage.

All of this—the destruction of the cavalry—had been accomplished by just five people.

It was no wonder that the morale of the advancing Martai infantry was already at rock bottom.

***

“Ragna and I will take the front, Rem on the right flank, Jaxon on the left, and Audin at the rear.”

Before arriving on this battlefield, Enkrid had pondered over how to lead a unit effectively—not just to engage in a brawl, but to fight with some semblance of formation.

It wasn’t a deeply strategic thought process.

The idea was simple: hold positions without interfering with one another.

In a chaotic skirmish, friendly casualties could mount rapidly. A purely defensive stance wasn’t suitable for such a small elite group.

Instead, the solution was to minimize friendly casualties by maximizing enemy losses in the shortest possible time.

Thus, this “reasonable formation” was born.

Rather than fighting separately, staying close together seemed more effective.

“Keep your spacing,” Enkrid commanded.

Of course, these weren’t soldiers bound by rigid discipline.

Audin, Ragna, and Jaxon might follow the orders, but would the wild and unpredictable Rem really comply?

Even Enkrid wasn’t sure.

If Rem ignored the formation, Enkrid was prepared to let it slide.

In that case, Ragna will take the lead, and I’ll shift to the right flank.

The same applied to Jaxon, Ragna, and Audin. If they chose to disregard his orders, he wouldn’t waste time convincing them.

The moment for persuasion had long passed.

At that point, the sword would do all the talking, and the only conversation would be between steel and flesh.

When Enkrid gave his instructions, he had already resolved himself to this possibility.

And yet—

“Got it,” Rem said, moving into position on the right flank.

The spacing was precise: three paces apart—not so far as to be unreachable, but not so close as to interfere.

“Spacing is three steps. Understood,” Jaxon said as he took the left flank.

Starting with Rem and Jaxon, Ragna stepped forward two paces to take the center.

Finally, Audin stationed himself at the rear.

“…You’re actually following orders?”

Enkrid couldn’t help but blurt out his astonishment as he glanced at Rem.

The compliance was so unexpected that he was genuinely shocked.

“What are you going on about? With those bastards coming right at us, who’s got time to waste flapping their gums?”

There wasn’t time. The enemy infantry was charging forward with all their might.

Enkrid didn’t have a chance to gauge the others’ reactions.

“...Forward.”

His voice was soft, yet firm, cutting through the chaos and reaching his squad clearly.

Ragna moved in sync with Enkrid. Whatever the formation’s intent, Enkrid was undoubtedly its centerpiece.

Was this really happening? Was everyone actually listening?

It was surprising, but there was no time to question it.

Waaaargh!

The enemy’s battle cries rang out.

“Kill them all!”

“Die, you bastards!”

“Filthy scum!”

Among the charging soldiers, some displayed fear, others madness, and a few remained calm.

Humans were, after all, varied creatures.

The mixture of fear, frenzy, and composure blended with curses and screams, forming a grim symphony—a battlefield orchestra.

Enkrid didn’t run. He merely increased his walking pace, and the squad followed his lead.

The squad’s morale was sky-high compared to the enemy’s.

Enkrid could feel it, the palpable energy coursing through the air.

“Waaaargh—idiots!”

Hearing the booming cheers from behind him, Enkrid faced his first opponent.

The cavalry’s earlier charge had a cascading effect.

The first wave left the enemy stunned, but the second broke their spirit entirely.

The remnants of the cavalry had retreated, leaving the infantry to press forward.

The soldier facing Enkrid now had lost all composure, the fear in his eyes unmistakable.

As the soldier’s blade swung toward him, Enkrid stepped forward.

He brought his sword down in a straight, vertical slash.

Thunk, splat!

The strike split the soldier’s skull, sending blood and brain matter spraying in all directions.

Droplets of blood rained down on Enkrid’s leather helmet.

Without missing a beat, Enkrid swung horizontally, slicing through another soldier’s chest and left arm.

Slash!

To Enkrid, the sword wasn’t just a weapon—it was a tool, an extension of his skill.

His blade, honed to razor sharpness, cut through the tide of enemies like a knife through butter.

Formation? Strategy? None of that mattered anymore.

The only goal was to stick together and cut down as many enemies as possible.

Enkrid pushed deep into the enemy ranks like the tip of a spear, and the rest followed naturally.

The Mad Squad’s advance was like a knife sinking into overripe fruit, carving a path into the enemy’s core.

What followed was inevitable: encirclement.

With enemies surrounding them on all sides, they were locked in battle.

But was this a disadvantage? Not for the Mad Squad.

“Brothers and sisters, to heaven!” Audin roared from the rear.

His fists and club moved faster than the eye could follow.

Thunk! Bang! Crack!

On the right flank, Rem laughed maniacally as her axe cleaved through swords, smashed helmets, and tore through armor.

“Come on, keep it coming! I’m just getting started!”

Covered in blood, her gray eyes gleamed from beneath her crimson-stained helmet.

The sheer terror they inspired caused the enemy vanguard to falter.

“You cowards!”

From the left, a figure charged forward.

Enkrid didn’t know his name, but this was Greg, the commander of Martai’s First Battalion.

Greg, a trusted lieutenant of General Olf, targeted Jaxon, the least conspicuous of the group.

Greg didn’t underestimate his opponent, but neither did he overestimate him.

With a hexagonal mace, Greg aimed a diagonal strike at Jaxon’s collarbone—a blow designed to disrupt the formation or crush an opponent outright.

Enkrid noticed but didn’t intervene.

No chance.

If Greg thought Jaxon was an easy target, he was sorely mistaken.

Greg avoided Rem, circling to the left to confront Jaxon.

The red-haired swordsman raised his slender blade to meet the mace.

If dodging wasn’t an option, then deflecting would suffice.

Tsssclang!

Jaxon parried the mace, redirecting its force with calculated precision. Sparks flew as metal scraped against metal.

Greg grunted, attempting to overpower the red-haired soldier with sheer strength.

“Idiot,” Jaxon muttered under his breath, his voice flat.

Greg heard it clearly and seethed with rage.

I’ll crush him, Greg thought, planting his foot firmly to strike again.

But as Greg’s vision narrowed on his opponent, the world suddenly spun.

Before he could comprehend what had happened, he saw Jaxon’s blade pierce another soldier’s visor, eliciting a scream.

“Argh!”

Why am I seeing this? Greg wondered as his gaze lowered.

His body lay crumpled on the ground, blood spurting like a broken fountain.

His severed head rolled to the side as darkness consumed him.

***

Ragna struck immediately as the foe targeting Jaxon staggered away.

There was no need to use Severance. Instead, he executed a Steel Slash.

Though the enemy’s armor, including the neck guard, appeared sturdy, it was meaningless.

Thunk. Slice!

The blade sheared through the armor, neck bones, and tendons in one fluid motion—a textbook execution of the Steel Slash from the Middle Sword Style.

The severed head flew through the air, its lifeless eyes seeming to blink as it spun.

Ragna paid it no further attention.

He was utterly engrossed.

‘What fascinating bastards.’

He wasn’t just referring to the enemy but also to his own comrades, including Enkrid.

Where else could such individuals have gathered?

This was no mere coincidence—it was the culmination of overlapping chances and shared fates.

A whimsical prank played by the Goddess of Fortune.

‘Or perhaps not.’

Ragna reflected that life often began with randomness but invariably ended in inevitability.

Perhaps this wasn’t a matter of luck. If not for Enkrid, Ragna wouldn’t have stayed here, which made this moment inevitable.

That wasn’t to downplay the roles of others, like Rem and the rest.

He had encountered similarly skilled individuals during his listless wanderings, but none had stopped him in his tracks quite like this group.

Chance and inevitability faded from his mind, replaced by exhilaration and amusement.

For Ragna, these emotions—so rarely felt while wielding a blade—now coursed through him, saturating his being and spilling over.

This was why his swordplay grew fiercer, more precise, and faster.

At some point, even Enkrid had to adjust his movements to match Ragna’s.

As Ragna surged forward, his blade a blur of lethal precision, he became nothing short of a grim reaper.

To the enemy, his presence transcended terror and veered into incomprehensible dread.

“Uuuuuargh!”

“Spare me!”

“A monster! He’s a monster!”

What had once been war cries devolved into sobbing.

The battlefield echoed not with shouts of defiance but with screams of despair and the icy silence of resignation.

The orchestration of battle was nearing its dissonant conclusion.

“...What kind of monsters are these?”

A squad leader who had once schemed to capture Enkrid near the supply lines had joined the fray.

A hollow sigh escaped his lips as he watched the chaos.

Had he survived, he might have become a great commander, an exceptional soldier.

But survival was not in his cards.

A battle axe swung without warning, striking him squarely in the chest.

Crunch!

His ribcage collapsed, and his heart ruptured. Agonizing pain coursed through his body, and the squad leader fell, blood streaming from his eyes.

By the time the number of dead surpassed a hundred, the battlefield was a crimson sea of broken bodies.

***

“Shit.”

Olf felt it in his gut—the battle was lost.

No, it wasn’t just a feeling.

This wasn’t a fight anymore; this was utter annihilation.

“Five quasi-knights?”

Shit, the bastard had hidden them well.

Olf was beyond disheartened; he was overwhelmed by sheer dread. Five quasi-knights? This wasn’t a battlefield—it was a massacre orchestrated with precision.

Even if they weren’t officially knights, to conceal five individuals of such overwhelming power was nothing short of a masterstroke.

Olf couldn’t accept it.

This wasn’t a defeat in war—it was the triumph of political cunning. A victory born of secrecy.

Marcus had hidden Enkrid, and this was the result.

“Maintain the skirmish!”

A commander without insignia shouted as he dashed past, his voice almost frantic.

There was nothing to maintain.

The tide of the battle no longer belonged to Olf.

From this point forward, even his life, the battle’s beginning, and its inevitable end were entirely in Marcus’s hands.

Morale, momentum—every thread of this war now rested in the grip of the political schemer.

“What a goddamn bastard,” Olf muttered bitterly.

Felled by an unexpected blow relying on concealed subordinates—it was humiliating, almost surreal.

Who could understand the depth of his despair?

Was this to be called strategy and tactics?

To win by simply hiding the strength of five warriors?

If anyone were to name this battle, it would only be fitting to call it:

Marcus’s Triumph in Hiding Enkrid.