Chapter 383 - Subduing Through Dominance
Enkrid wasn't aware of it, but the Red Cloak Knights differentiated their ranks with distinct emblems.
For example, knights bore the royal crest: three crossed swords and the Sun Beast, a mythical creature with a round head and flaming mane. Junior knights removed one sword from the emblem. Squires, on the other hand, displayed only a single sword, which evolved in design based on their tests and missions.
The opponent Enkrid faced bore the emblem of a sword alongside the Sun Beast—a mark of squires recognized for their skill and only a few tests away from becoming junior knights.
The squire's sword was swift and precise, striking like an eagle snatching prey. Enkrid, however, didn't bother analyzing the squire's techniques or habits. Instead, he twisted his blade the moment their swords met.
Ting!
The squire's expression shifted drastically. The force behind Enkrid's blade felt overwhelming, like that of a giant. It was no surprise; Enkrid's sword carried the might of the Heart of the Beast.
Clang! Crack!
As the blades clashed, the squire's sword was flung upward, while Enkrid's continued its deliberate trajectory—a straight thrust forward. Its target: the armor over the squire's chest.
Thunk. Crack. Squelch.
Three distinct sounds merged into one as the tip of Enkrid's blade pierced the armor and stabbed the heart. Without hesitation, Enkrid withdrew his sword faster than he had struck, stepping back exactly one pace.
Despite the blood gushing from his chest, the squire swung his sword horizontally, slicing through the air where Enkrid had stood moments before. Bloodshot eyes glared at Enkrid as the squire collapsed to his side, coughing up a mouthful of blood.
"Ghhhk…"
His grip on his sword slackened as his body slumped to the ground. His gaze flickered a few times—death had arrived.
Why…?
Time seemed to slow for the dying squire. His mind raced, a phenomenon common before death. He refused to accept reality.
Why did I lose?
Who was this man? The squire had sparred with many junior knights and even held his ground. Losing so utterly in a single exchange felt impossible.
Regret began to bubble up.
Was this the wrong choice?
He realized now that he should never have been involved in this. Yet, what would have changed if he had stayed silent? The promise he had received for participating was an upgraded emblem—a second sword added to his crest.
It wasn't about skill; his promotion to junior knight was assured. But now, it all seemed futile. Hadn't he merely followed the path most likely to lead to victory?
I was wrong.
As death approached, regret mingled with clarity.
This was my failure.
He thought back to when he had first dreamt of knighthood, when he had been recognized for his talent. Had he ever wielded his sword for power, wealth, or fame?
No.
"I wish to uphold chivalry."
His former mentors, seniors, and comrades had laughed at his youthful idealism.
"What a romantic fool you are."
"If you ever become a knight, we'll call you the Knight of Romance."
"What a ridiculous name."
"Hahaha! Well, good luck with that."
The squire had once aspired to the ideals of knighthood, learned through poetry and song. But somewhere along the way, he had abandoned those dreams for something else: power, wealth, recognition.
The pursuit of honor had twisted when he began to see it as admiration from others. He had dreamt of changing his emblem, of earning an additional sword. But what had he truly sought?
As a flower wilts or a blade shatters, the squire's life ended. He lay motionless on the ground.
Before him stood a man whose breathing hadn't even quickened, his sword dripping blood onto the ruined floor. The corridor was a mess—splintered furniture, a cracked door, bloodstains, bodies, and broken blades scattered everywhere.
The man stood amidst the carnage: dark-haired, blue-eyed.
Some of those present recognized him.
"The bodyguard from that escort party…"
One of them muttered, then fell silent as Enkrid's gaze turned toward him.
Did he hear that?
The man's lips had barely moved, but Enkrid paid no attention to his murmurs or thoughts.
"Who's inside?" Enkrid asked.
It was a simple question, yet to the remaining soldiers, it felt like an unrelenting pressure. After witnessing him kill the squire with ease, his very presence radiated authority.
Eight men stood blocking the door. The commander swallowed hard. Could they take him down if all eight attacked at once?
Not a chance, he thought as cold sweat beaded on his brow.
Enkrid took a step forward, his foot brushing against the broken remains of a wooden shield. The subtle movement caused one soldier to instinctively step aside.
The rest clenched their teeth, trying to hold their ground. Enkrid raised his sword as he advanced.
Block me, and I'll cut you down.
The sheer weight of his intent manifested, turning into Will.
One of the soldiers broke into a cold sweat and scrambled aside. That was all it took—there was no one left blocking the way.
"Are you staying to fight?" Enkrid asked.
"No."
The commander's voice was strained but resolute. Fighting was suicide. The fact that Enkrid wasn't immediately slaughtering them was a blessing.
The soldiers followed their commander's lead, retreating silently. Some were mercenaries and soldiers under Viscount Mernes.
They knew the consequences of leaving—they might face execution for abandoning their post. Viscount Mernes was strict about rewards and punishments, never tolerating failure.
Still, they left. The presence before them was overwhelming. They could not win.
Enkrid didn't glance back as he inspected the door blocking his path.
"Who's in there?"
Enkrid asked, tapping the partially shattered door with the tip of his sword.
From inside, a sharp snap rang out, followed by the wet sound of something striking the ground.
"You?"
The voice from within was familiar—Matthew, the whip-wielding bodyguard.
'What was his name again?'
The memory was hazy, one of the side effects of endlessly repeating days. No matter how sharp his memory was, even he couldn't escape the erosion of time.
"Rat?"
Enkrid ventured.
"…Who's that?"
It sounded close enough.
"Melon?"
"…Are you doing this on purpose?"
Even in a dire situation, he couldn't resist.
Matthew, fuming silently, questioned in his heart why his lord trusted someone like this.
"It's Matthew."
"Ah, right. Matthew."
"What about the ones outside?"
"They're gone."
"…Where to?"
"Wherever they were meant to go."
Enkrid felt no obligation to protect other nobles or anyone else. He had no interest in doing so either.
Killing them wasn't even on his mind. Marcus had asked for help, and Crang had requested protection. That much, Enkrid could understand.
So, he simply did what he was asked.
"Inside?"
"Come in."
Finally, the dresser blocking the door screeched as it was dragged aside.
Inside was chaos.
Seven bodies lay scattered.
Matthew, half his face wrapped in bandages, stood nearby. Beside him was another female warrior, gripping a long trident with sharp, watchful eyes.
She wore chainmail that covered her upper body but left her left shoulder exposed—where the armor was shattered and torn.
The way she carried herself bore the marks of someone who had survived dire straits.
Though her movements suggested discomfort, she held her composure.
"Where?"
"Over there."
Turning his gaze, Enkrid spotted Krang poking his head out of a hole in the wall.
"You said we must get you to safety even at the cost of our lives," Matthew snapped, his tone heavy with anger.
"Where would I go, leaving you behind? If this is where it ends for me, so be it."
Krang was calm, exuding a presence that spoke volumes even in this moment. Seeing Enkrid, Krang waved.
"You're late."
"Tripped over a rock on the way."
Enkrid shrugged. He left out the details—that the "rock" was orange, female, and part of the Red Cloak Knights.
Krang began climbing out of the hole. It seemed to lead to some sort of emergency passage, though Enkrid couldn't help but wonder why it was a hole and not stairs.
The faint sound of a ladder being climbed echoed as Krang ascended.
"It's not safe," Matthew protested.
But Krang ignored him, emerging fully. The woman with the trident kept watch outside. Enkrid briefly wondered who she was. Matthew likely wasn't the only guard Krang had prepared—Krang wasn't the type to leave himself defenseless.
'He wouldn't go down so easily.'
Even so, asking for help implied the situation was grave. It meant Krang believed Enkrid's presence was essential.
"I didn't think you'd ask for help," Enkrid admitted.
"You're a friend. Call it repaying a debt."
Krang spoke as he dusted himself off.
Though Krang had prepared for contingencies, time had forced his plans to unravel. If Enkrid hadn't arrived, he would've died in a siege.
Yet even after brushing so close to death, Krang smiled, unshaken.
"You dreamed of becoming a king. So why—"
Matthew's voice was bitter, his words heavy with frustration. To him, Krang's decisions were incomprehensible.
"Because I dreamed of becoming a king," Krang replied.
His words carried a new gravity, silencing the room.
The air shifted as Krang continued.
"If I flee to save my life, what kind of king would I be? How could I sit on the throne after failing to protect even one person I care about? Should I sit there, stuffing my face with grapes peeled by servants? Shut up, Matthew. If I die here, then my fate ends here. I've done my best, prepared as much as I could, and made it this far. I won't leave just to lose more."
Enkrid felt a chill run down his spine. It was just words—
But they weren't just words. Words gained power when backed by action, and Krang had shown he would act.
Sacrificing his life for his beliefs was only natural.
"I made a promise to the Queen. To keep that, this is what I must do."
Krang smiled at Matthew, softening his words.
"So stop nagging, will you?"
His last words were as light as those of a friend teasing another.
Finally, Enkrid understood why Krang had summoned him.
Was it the danger? The crisis?
No.
'It's to refuse to run.'
It was to defy his fear and stay true to his dream.
Enkrid saw himself in Krang. Though they were nothing alike, and their circumstances differed greatly, he recognized the desperation.
It was the struggle to take even one step forward.
Krang lived that way.
Enkrid felt a stirring in his heart—a desire to help.
This was Krang's talent: inspiring others to act.
"Someone's coming," the woman with the trident said, moving to barricade the door again.
"How many?" Matthew asked.
"One."
The grinding sound of Matthew clenching his teeth filled the room.
"This is the worst-case scenario, isn't it?" Krang asked lightly.
Matthew had mentioned it earlier: a lone enemy was far more dangerous than a horde.
"Time to test our luck," Krang said.
Enkrid, smirking, spoke without hesitation.
"I'll be your luck."
Krang turned to look at him, but Enkrid didn't wait for a reply.
"Leave it," he said to Matthew, who had been trying to block the door with furniture.
Barricades worked well against large groups, but against a skilled individual, they were meaningless.
Pushing the door open, Enkrid stepped outside.
A man stood there.
For Enkrid, they had crossed paths before. But for the man, this was their first meeting.
The man's left eyebrow twitched as he saw Enkrid.
"Did you kill Aishia?"
"Put her to sleep."
Enkrid replied. His lullabies consisted of punches and kicks.
The man hesitated briefly before lunging forward, sword drawn.
Shing! The blade flashed as it descended, timing the attack perfectly.
Enkrid managed to react, drawing his gladius to deflect the blow.
Clang!
The force rattled his wrist, nearly breaking it.
The man's feints and precision were relentless, blending steps, questions, and strikes into a seamless assault.
And in that moment, Enkrid realized something.
'He's above Aishia.'
Perhaps even on par with Rem.
Before he could recover, the man drew a second sword, thrusting it forward.
Snap!
A whip of twisted beast leather lashed between them, intercepting the strike.
It was Matthew's handiwork.
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