Chapter 50 - "Surely" Catches People (1)
After the battle ended, Enkrid fulfilled his duties as part of the Border Guard's standing army.
He stood watch, patrolled the city, and spent every other moment wholly focused on his sword.
For someone new to Enkrid's routine, it might seem monotonous, but to everyone around him, it was an unremarkable, peaceful daily life.
Even if someone had been paying attention, Enkrid wouldn't have cared.
He immersed himself inwardly, wrestling with a single question:
"How can I win?"
Or, "How can I wield my sword better?"
It was a time for self-reflection and re-evaluation. Observing the knights' skills only fueled a burning desire to surpass them.
Yet, he wasn't impatient.
Step by step, slowly but surely.
Progress, no matter how gradual, was Enkrid's specialty.
"Heart of the Beast, Sense of Evasion, Pin-Point Focus."
To move forward, he relied on everything he had learned from Rem, Jaxen, and Ragna, pouring it all into his sparring sessions.
At first, he mainly sparred with Rem.
Later, Ragna joined, and eventually, Jaxen occasionally joined in as well.
"I'll give you a reality check before your brain turns entirely to muscle."
"Huh? Was that directed at me?"
A stray comment sparked tension between Rem and Jaxen, but to Enkrid, it was just another part of their peaceful routine.
Sparring with Rem was intense.
It demanded quick thinking and improvisation.
It required boldness and focus, with no time for hesitation—his body had to move before his mind did.
Ragna's approach was different.
His duels revolved around pure swordsmanship, where even an initial offensive could turn into a desperate defense if one let their guard down.
Throughout, one had to remain attuned to the overall flow of the battle.
Jaxen's style was distinct from both of them.
Jaxen relied heavily on deception—using sounds, subtle footwork, hand gestures, or even the faintest shrug of his shoulders to mislead his opponent.
Every movement had to be scrutinized, turning the fight into a battle of reflexive wits.
"Clear your mind. Focus on the present," Jaxen often reminded him.
The knights faded from Enkrid's thoughts as he threw himself into daily repetition.
***
Two weeks after his return to the Border Guard, a ceremony was held to recognize the participants of the recent battle.
"These individuals contributed to our victory against the treacherous Aspen!"
The battalion commander distributed rewards, with Enkrid receiving the largest share.
"A special reward is granted for identifying and dispelling the enemy's sorcery!"
The adjutant proclaimed Enkrid's accomplishments for all to hear.
They're really announcing all this?
He had expected the leadership to claim his credit for themselves, but they openly acknowledged his achievements.
Among the company commanders standing beside the battalion commander, one stood out—a fairy with emerald-green eyes.
What role did that commander play?
Enkrid didn't know, and he doubted he'd get an answer even if he asked.
"Our victory!" the battalion commander bellowed again.
This time, however, there was no frenzy like on the final night of battle.
The soldiers led by their squad leaders clapped politely.
When Enkrid returned to his place, a few soldiers behind him glanced his way, whispering.
"Sorcery? Did he really destroy that banner on his own?"
"Probably one of his squad members did it."
"No way he did it alone."
"So, the mist was sorcery, and he dispelled it? I can't believe it. That squad leader?"
It was the kind of remark one would make if they were familiar with the old Enkrid.
And Enkrid understood that.
But Rem did not.
"Looks like some of the young ones are craving my axe," he remarked with a blank expression, a chilling weight in his voice.
This was a man who, even under normal circumstances, enjoyed smacking soldiers upside the head for sport.
"Why do they even bother with these ceremonies? They could've let us sleep instead," Ragna grumbled, glancing back with annoyance.
The battalion commander's speech was tediously long.
Enkrid, as their squad leader, tried to calm him down.
Meanwhile, the commander droned on about his role in the battle—how sending the recon team was his idea, how he immediately recognized the flag as sorcery.
It was a parade of nonsense.
The whispers behind Enkrid grew louder, mocking him with increasing boldness.
"What if that squad leader's sneaking into the battalion commander's quarters?"
"Ha, what nonsense. He's no courtesan."
The soldier who uttered the last remark laughed uproariously at his own words.
Enkrid had heard such comments before, back when he was struggling to survive with the help of his squad.
When his skills were subpar, he didn't let such words get to him.
Now, he'd reached a point where he didn't even register them.
But his squad members thought otherwise.
"Having fun, are we?"
It was Jaxen.
At some point, the red-haired squad member had quietly moved between the two offending soldiers, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders.
Enkrid hadn't even noticed him move.
The soldiers flinched visibly.
Jaxen leaned between them, speaking softly.
His words were inaudible, his lips unreadable.
Whatever he said, the soldiers fell silent, their faces pale.
Jaxen casually returned to his place.
"What did you say?" Rem asked, curious.
Even Ragna perked up his ears, while Big Eyes and the Audin subtly leaned toward Jaxen.
Though indifferent to gossip, Enkrid, too, was curious.
"Just some life advice," Jaxen replied nonchalantly.
"Sure, funny guy," Rem scoffed.
Though Enkrid and Big Eyes didn't see it, the others did.
Jaxen's hands, resting on the soldiers' shoulders, each held a short knife.
Its sharp tip had been poised against their necks—enough to send a chill down anyone's spine.
"Need any advice yourself?" Jaxen asked Rem casually.
His tone was calm, but the tension was palpable.
Veins bulged on Rem's forehead as he laughed it off.
"Quiet. The commander's still talking," Enkrid interjected, defusing the situation.
Even after Jaxen's subtle display of force, the resentment toward Enkrid lingered.
Jealousy and bitterness simmered, directed at someone who was once a nobody—a soldier barely scraping by at the bottom.
But now, that same soldier had dispelled sorcery, earning recognition from the battalion commander and a royal reward.
While some celebrated his achievement, many let their envy fester, embodying the serpentine malice often described in Naurilia folklore.
The word "surely" became the embodiment of disbelief, mingled with scorn, jealousy, and contempt.
"Surely, that squad leader didn't really do it," they said.
Even Big Eyes, usually unbothered, couldn't help but comment, "They sure like to talk."
The battalion commander's speech finally ended, and Enkrid found his reward pouch heavy.
It wasn't just small coins—this was a considerable amount.
Enkrid decided to buy a new sword with it.
"Dismissed! Time for shift rotation!"
The adjutant signaled the end of the tedious ceremony.
"Care for a sparring session now? Do you have a shift?" Enkrid asked Rem as the group dispersed.
Rem stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Have you thought about dealing with those loudmouths instead?"
"Those guys? Why bother? What's the point?"
Enkrid's single-minded focus on his sword made Rem chuckle despite himself.
How could someone remain so consistent?
"Let's spar," Rem agreed, recalling the first time he'd met Enkrid at the Border Guard.
Back then, he was a pathetic swordsman, relying on tricks to get by.
And now?
Memories of their recent bout flashed through Rem's mind.
Where did he pick up such solid fundamentals?
The middle-style swordsmanship Enkrid displayed was as polished as if he had been trained by a renowned family.
"You've improved a lot," Rem admitted.
Rem offered a single comment before shifting gears himself.
He had to; casual sparring like before was no longer sufficient.
While Rem took it lightly, Ragna was genuinely surprised after sparring with Enkrid.
"I couldn't have taught him better myself."
The squad leader's skills had improved significantly.
His fundamentals were sharper, and the focused concentration—something Ragna had briefly explained—was applied with remarkable proficiency.
But this wasn't an extraordinary development.
Focused concentration was akin to entering a trance state, pushing oneself to the limit.
With enough talent, one could master it in a single day.
Ragna himself had done so.
The squad leader achieving it might have been astonishing, but...
"It's not impossible."
This line of thinking—believing that if he could do something, so could others—was typical of a genius.
Ragna used this logic to make sense of Enkrid's current state.
Jaxen, meanwhile, found joy in sparring with a much-improved squad leader.
'Is this... fun?'
A sword, a spear, or even a dagger—what were they, if not tools designed to kill?
Jaxen had always seen weapons as mere tools throughout his life.
Yet, oddly, after crossing blades with the squad leader, he felt a strange sense of relief.
So much so that, for a brief moment, he forgot his own personal goals.
It was puzzling, and because of that, Jaxen wanted to support the squad leader even more.
On the other side stood Audin Fumrei, a devout squad member, staring intently at the squad leader.
Audin's perception was sharp.
"To improve so much in a single day..."
Had the squad leader always been this gifted with physical abilities?
If so, his skills should continue improving at this rate.
But now, he seemed to have plateaued.
All learning and practice inevitably hit a stagnation point, and Audin knew this well.
Yet, whenever he observed the squad leader, something felt oddly out of place.
"There's something strange about this."
Still, he dismissed it as nothing worth dwelling on—or perhaps a blessing from the gods.
After all, Enkrid was someone who trained relentlessly, to the point that a single day often felt too short.
If such a person didn't deserve divine blessings, who did?
With these thoughts, Audin embraced the questions surrounding the squad leader.
God and man, blessings and curses—he pondered everything deeply.
***
"Seems like a good one."
Enkrid purchased a sword.
"It's better than 'good'! That blade's mixed with Valerian steel!" the blacksmith said, veins bulging on his forehead.
"Is that so?" Enkrid replied, inspecting the blade closely.
There was no bluish sheen typical of Valerian steel.
Noticing Enkrid's expert examination, the blacksmith added, "I said 'mixed with,' not pure Valerian steel."
"I see."
Valerian steel was a renowned metal across the continent.
Known for its high elasticity and resistance to breaking, a weapon forged from it rarely chipped.
Once sharpened, it became a durable and reliable weapon.
On the battlefield, a sturdy blade was as valuable as a dependable ally.
Thus, Valerian steel weapons were highly sought after.
While Imperial steel was another option, it was never exported outside the Empire.
This made Valerian steel the best available alternative.
"I'll take it."
Spending half his reward money on the sword, Enkrid drew a shake of the head from Krais, the "Big Eyes."
"Why spend so much on a sword? You could just grab something off the battlefield or request from supplies."
"Wouldn't it feel unfair to die because of a subpar weapon?"
"...Well, when you put it that way, I can't argue."
"So, are you heading straight for the rank advancement now?"
"Yeah."
Having honed his skills through countless sparring matches, Enkrid felt ready to test himself.
"How far can I go?"
Currently at the lowest rank, he judged himself capable of reaching at least the mid-tier.
But what about the upper ranks?
The top tier?
The elite?
To boost morale among soldiers, Naurilia had implemented a ranking system.
To advance, one simply had to defeat someone of a higher rank.
Challenges were always accepted, and there were designated officials within units to organize such matches.
It was a simple but effective system.
"Alright, let's go."
Krais, who often coordinated these matches, saw it as another lucrative opportunity.
Betting was a common practice during these sparring matches, and the higher-ups turned a blind eye to the money changing hands.
Some commanders even placed bets themselves.
"I'm betting on the squad leader's victory," Krais declared.
It wasn't a statement of confidence in his own judgment; it was based on Rem's advice:
"Always bet on the squad leader."
That was all he needed to hear.
And since Rem didn't say such things lightly, Krais trusted him.
"Just don't let me lose," he thought.
Though he wouldn't confront Rem directly, Krais knew better than to cross him.
When Enkrid approached the platoon leader to request a rank advancement match, the leader nodded.
"Fair enough. No need to stay at the bottom rank."
With the platoon leader's approval and Krais's coordination, the match was set up in the central training ground.
At first, only a few idle soldiers gathered to watch.
After all, it was just another sparring match—until they realized who was involved.
It was none other than the infamous squad leader.
The one who shattered the Mist of Massacre.
The one rumored to have licked his squad member's... well, an embarrassing tale that kept the soldiers entertained.
Naturally, more spectators trickled in, curious about the notorious squad leader.
Soon, over twenty soldiers had gathered.
Facing Enkrid was a curly-haired soldier, a former mercenary.
"I'm mid-tier. So you went straight for the mid-tier rank, huh?"
"Yeah."
"You're pretty cocky."
After a brief exchange, they clashed swords.
Clang!
The sound of steel meeting steel echoed as Enkrid blocked the soldier's downward slash.
He waited, expecting the soldier to launch another attack.
That's how it always was—with Rem, Ragna, and Jaxen.
They exploited every opening during their sparring sessions.
In real combat, it was no different.
Even the depraved foes who favored thrusts, and the lunatic Hurrier of Aspen, never left any gaps.
But this opponent was different.
Clang! Clang!
After a few more exchanges, Enkrid frowned.
"Is this a joke?"
His opponent's skills were far below expectations.
It was hard to tell if the soldier was serious or not.
"Haah!"
The "mid-tier" soldier swung down again, leaving an absurd number of openings.
Enkrid pretended to block before sidestepping and hooking his foot around the soldier's shin.
Thud, whump, swoosh!
The soldier's right leg lifted awkwardly as he tumbled to the ground with a loud crash.
"Argh!"
A misplaced hand during the fall had the soldier clutching his wrist in pain, groaning on the ground.
The outcome was unexpected.
Enkrid's eyes filled with questions.
"Why are they so weak?"
It baffled him.