'Whatever rumors they've spread...'
Enkrid could sense something unsettling in the eyes of the man before him.
This wasn't just someone testing his skill in a friendly spar. The look in those eyes betrayed greed—a hunger born of self-serving desire.
"The Soldier Who Ended the War, huh? Don't you think that's a bit arrogant?"
The mercenary, Ivarn, raised his morningstar as he spoke, his tone laced with hostility.
His posture and demeanor were unmistakable—a predator sizing up its prey. His body language seemed to say,
"This weapon can crush your skull, you know?"
Yet Enkrid remained unmoved, standing in place and answering plainly, "Perhaps."
"Confident in your skills, I take it?"
Ivarn looked like he was about to charge immediately, but his hesitation betrayed an attempt to gauge his opponent. Enkrid disliked this tactic.
"Somewhat," he replied nonchalantly.
The lack of concern in his tone made Ivarn's brow furrow.
"You cocky bastard," Ivarn spat, his insult deliberate and calculated to provoke. It was a common tactic to unsettle one's opponent—a trick Enkrid himself had often employed in the past.
Back then, Enkrid had relied on his sharp tongue as much as his sword to survive.
"RAAAH!"
Ivarn could take no more. He surged forward, swinging his morningstar with all his might.
So this was
Constraining Ivarn,
a city-class powerhouse?
The mercenary's approach was laughably slow—by Enkrid's standards, at least. Compared to someone like Rem, Ivarn might as well have been standing still.
Still, Enkrid didn't intend to take this lightly. If he fought, he would do so with everything he had. That was the principle he lived by—always giving his best, no matter the circumstance.
It was the only way he had managed to reach where he stood today.
'Appearances can be deceiving,'
he reminded himself.
This might all be part of a larger tactic. Feigning weakness to lull an opponent into a false sense of security was a staple of mercenary combat.
As the morningstar descended, Enkrid stepped to the side, his left foot sliding smoothly out of harm's way. Spinning his body, he drew his sword in a single motion.
Ching!
The blade gleamed as it sliced through the air.
Ivarn, realizing too late that he'd overextended, tried to recover his swing. The weight and momentum of his morningstar made it impossible, causing his movement to falter.
"Ugh!"
The scar-faced mercenary grunted as he abandoned his weapon and threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding Enkrid's blade.
The sword cut through empty air, intentionally so.
Enkrid wasn't about to let his guard down, suspecting that Ivarn might feign retreat only to launch a surprise attack.
But nothing came.
'Why isn't he charging?'
It wasn't as though Enkrid had left himself wide open, but the opportunity was there if Ivarn had the skill to exploit it.
"Let's do this barehanded," Ivarn suddenly declared, abandoning his weapon entirely.
Enkrid immediately sensed the truth.
'An empty shell.'
Later, he would learn that Ivarn's nickname,
Constraining Ivarn,
stemmed from his renowned grip strength. But against Enkrid—whose arms had been honed to iron through the Isolation Technique—those vaunted hands left little more than faint marks on his skin.
When Enkrid responded in kind, snapping Ivarn's wrist with a brutal twist, the mercenary howled in agony.
"AAAAH!"
It was over.
Ivarn's reputation was a lie, built on hollow boasts and the ignorance of others.
"Hmm."
Krais, who had been watching from the sidelines, let out a low hum.
A few of the Second Company's soldiers had gathered to observe, curious about the so-called
first challenger.
Rem shook his head, unimpressed. "Only idiots are going to show up at this rate."
Jaxen said nothing. Neither did Ragna nor Audin.
What had been intended as a way to attract worthy opponents had, so far, only brought a fraud.
"Are we done here?" Enkrid asked, turning to Ivarn.
"No! No more!" Ivarn stammered, his bravado shattered.
Enkrid thought briefly that even Bell might have handled this fight. With a slight shrug, he turned away.
"Don't be too discouraged," Krais said with a shrug. "They say every great journey starts in the village. You can't expect perfection from the first bite."
It was an old Eastern saying:
One can't be full from the first mouthful.
Enkrid nodded absently, his mind elsewhere.
He thought of Rem, wild and feral.
Of Jaxen, whose indifference masked a deadly edge.
Of Ragna, whose skill in both swordplay and strategy made him formidable.
Of Audin, a natural powerhouse with extraordinary physical control.
Each of them had pushed him to grow in different ways.
And yet, he craved something new—a hunger that drove him forward, searching for what was missing. It was an instinctive need, as natural as breathing.
This, however?
'An empty shell.'
A disappointment, perhaps, but not one that could truly dampen Enkrid's spirit. He was a man of patience, capable of enduring far worse than this.
"It's fine," he muttered to himself.
Of the next five challengers who came seeking him, four were no different—fools who sought to claim his reputation for their own.
"If I beat you, do I get to be company commander?"
"Is that how you fight? You look trained, but you're lacking something."
"You're not drawing your sword? If I kill you, don't blame me."
And so it went.
Enkrid sprinkled his own seasoning on the table set by Krais, doing things his way.
Those who had challenged him with lackluster skills were all left nursing broken limbs. Some had been mercenaries with respectable names, others were wanderers calling themselves swordsmen training for personal growth, and a few were former squires who arrogantly boasted about their past.
But the majority were mercenaries, many of whom sought the title of
The Soldier Who Ended the War
for themselves.
Seven more challengers arrived after, but there was nothing of value to learn from them. Most of them were pathetic, worse than actual soldiers.
Among them, the only somewhat decent opponent was a beastman named Barakal.
Barakal was a member of the beastkin, whose human speech was clumsy but who possessed exceptional physical abilities.
He was one of the rare few Enkrid could consider a real challenge. The beastmen used claws—blades extending from their knuckles—as weapons, and they were adept at using them in unpredictable ways.
He would often raise his knees to distract his opponents, slashing downward with his claws, or lower his stance and charge at them from below.
It was clear that such attacks were made possible by his natural athleticism.
Enkrid studied his movements, learning from the experience.
It wasn't a bad session at all.
Even if the day was not repeated, the time spent absorbing, testing, and training had its value.
Without any threats or walls in the way, Enkrid continued to live as if he were repeating today, striving to always do his best.
Rem, on the other hand, was relentlessly hounding Dunbakel. It wasn't just teasing anymore—it was full-on torment.
"If you don't do this right, you're going to die, beastman."
At first, it had been in jest, but now it was a matter of life and death.
How else would you handle it?
Dunbakel, like the others, seemed to lack the discipline to properly harness his power.
So, what was the solution?
Push him to the edge of a cliff, and he would instinctively exert himself to avoid falling.
And that was exactly what Rem did.
As he fought, he also reflected on something.
'She has potential.'
Her natural physical abilities were extraordinary. She had a certain quickness and instinct when it came to physical combat.
But she was far from Enkrid's level.
The difference in willpower and endurance was clear.
"I'm done for..."
After a few more rounds of brutal training, Dunbakel collapsed, half-conscious. If she had any endurance or willpower, it would have paled in comparison to Enkrid's.
Rem, now thinking about Enkrid, felt a shift in his thoughts.
He realized that Enkrid's abilities had grown significantly.
He was no longer someone who could be handled easily, even for Rem. A small slip-up could lead to disaster.
As he considered Enkrid's progress, a word came to mind:
"A knight."
The path Enkrid was walking was one that, in a way, Rem had walked before.
Of course, it wasn't the same kind of knight the continent typically referred to.
Rem's tribe had their own interpretation of what it meant to be a knight.
Lately, Rem had been feeling more reflective than usual, which was why he was pushing Dunbakel so harshly.
He needed to push the others, so that he could push himself as well. That was how Rem worked—through pressure and trial.
"Are you crazy? Lying down? Sleeping? Are you seriously sleeping in the middle of training?"
He yelled, forcing Dunbakel to struggle back to her feet. In Rem's mind, he could easily believe someone would say he was a demon, risen from the depths of the cursed lands.
The Soldier Who Ended the War.
"That bastard, it's him."
In the northern part of Pen-Hanil, a member of the cult of the Sacred Place muttered this in a small pub, while scheming in the back.
The pub was empty for the most part, as it was early in the day.
On the table in front of the cult member was a drawing of Enkrid's face.
'He's the one who's been constantly interfering with our plans.'
The one who had destroyed the colony in the frontier village and killed the inquisitors.
The one who had killed the manticores and their handlers, sent by them to assassinate him.
'He's a nuisance.'
The cult's member made a decision. Coincidentally, this nuisance had spread strange rumors about himself, asking people to come find him.
"Go kill him," the cult leader commanded.
A simple task—destroying a colony was nothing to them. Their power was more than enough to do that.
But they had power that surpassed even that.
The cult member's command was answered by a woman sitting across the table.
She was large, with shoulders broader than most men and thighs like tree trunks.
Her eyes were narrow, making her pupils nearly invisible, and her lips were even thinner.
A warrior raised by the cult of the Sacred Place, she had no talent for magic but had climbed to her current position purely through her physical prowess.
"Yes," she said, rising from her seat.
She looked like a giant, and her true strength came from the blood of giants flowing through her veins.
The cult had conducted experiments on her, infusing her with giant blood.
If it weren't for Will, her physical abilities and combat prowess could be considered on par with a knight.
She would have no trouble killing Enkrid. There was no need for an assassin—she would take care of it herself.
And if he wanted to die fighting, she would grant him that, too.
The Black Blade Bandits understood the importance of reputation more than anything else.
"We can't just leave things at being beaten and retreating, can we? If we back off, we can't just quietly slip away either."
Marcus had already taken care of the matter within the Black Blade main group.
And one of the Black Blade thieves had also been involved in similar dealings as the cult.
'What if we kill the one Marcus put forward?'
There were many nobles with connections all the way to the capital. Enkrid's fate was intertwined with them. This matter would shrink Marcus's standing.
It was all about fulfilling contracts.
If necessary, Marcus might even have to be killed.
But before that, the one who first took action would be dealt with.
As they thought this, the hidden figure in the border guard began doing something strange.
The rumors about
the soldier who ended the war
had reached this place too.
"Is he trying to provoke us into a fight?"
There were many skilled fighters within the Black Blade Bandits.
The main group decided to send one of them.
A man with brown hair and an unremarkable appearance.
His nickname was "Swallow Blade."
It was given because of the impressive way he wielded his sword with one hand.
"He'll do the job."
He was a madman who took pleasure in the act of murder, often grinning as he drove his sword into someone's throat.
"Let's go."
The Black Blade Bandits' leader sent Swallow Blade on the mission.
Swallow Blade was originally from a squire background. He was known as a tragic genius who had been cast out after committing too many murders. Had he not joined the Black Blade Bandits, he would have likely been dead by now.
'I've spent a lot of gold keeping him around.'
The nobles they intended to kill had been coerced, and much krona had been spent hiding them and providing what was needed.
The reason they sharpened their blades was to use them, after all.
This time, it was necessary to do so.
But they weren't the only ones sending people.
Several had moved under the banner of Count Molsen as well.
"Doing something fun, huh? Isn't there a warrior who can prove the Count's blade is greater than his?"
At the Count's request, his two sons and a warrior set out. One of them was the very man who had been defeated by Enkrid in the past.
"I'll go."
The son wasn't stopped.
Whether it was a positive or negative impression, it was important for them to make their presence known.
This wasn't the end, though. Even places completely unrelated to Count Molsen, the Black Blade, or the cult had heard of Enkrid.
"Has he really grown that much?"
This came from a man who had once served as a rapier swordsman guarding the Rockfreed merchant group.
He absentmindedly stroked his mustache, a gesture he had done many times before.
Now, it was gone completely. The lack of a mustache made his hand feel empty.
"Apparently."
After finishing his business, he found himself with some free time.
'Should I visit?'
He hadn't expected much growth from Enkrid, but if he had indeed improved significantly, perhaps there was more to him.
Maybe he had even sold his soul to some demon.
But he couldn't just leave it at that.
There was a genuine curiosity about how Enkrid had changed.
It was on his way, after all.
"Should I go around?"
One of his subordinates spoke up.
The rapier swordsman paused and looked at the map for a moment before replying.
"Isn't it on the way?"
The subordinate thought for a second and nodded.
"Yes, I guess it is."
They all nodded in agreement.
Considering the man's stature and authority, no one would dare oppose him.
It would be a good way to clear his head.
The man began to walk, curious about how Enkrid had changed.
After knocking down Ibarn, many mercenaries came looking for Enkrid. At first, he would accept anyone, but now things were different.
"This seems pointless. I'll only fight after they've at least beaten someone like Bell."
Krais, who had been watching, made the suggestion, and it was followed.
"Next!"
During training, it wasn't just Bell, but several other soldiers stepped up.
Though some soldiers lost, higher-ranked ones would take their place.
"If that's all you've got, you're no match!"
The second platoon leader, with a sword wound on his cheek, shouted.
"Woah!"
"Just as expected!"
"Palto! Palto!"
Such cheers were now a regular occurrence.
The innkeeper, Allen, who had been confused at first, now found this all quite routine.
"Extra beer!"
He was busy serving drinks to those who came to watch.
Life seemed uneventful for the most part.
Then, a warrior who had defeated Palto, the second platoon leader, appeared.
"I haven't heard your name before, but your skill is impressive. And you're a woman."
The female warrior stood before Enkrid.
Behind the inn, in the training area, many local merchants had gathered to watch.
"A giant?"
Enkrid asked, eyeing the opponent. He had never seen someone taller than Audin, and the fact that it was a woman made it even more surprising.
"Mixed blood."
The woman responded in a husky voice, but her femininity was still clear.
Enkrid raised his sword. He held it with the tip pointing upward, and his weight was centered on the middle of his feet.
His instincts told him this would be no easy fight.
The woman also raised her weapon.
A sword and a shield made of solid iron.
Just the sight of her weapon revealed her incredible strength.

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