Chapter 264 - What Is Black Blade Doing?

"Well? What did you make of him?" Edin Molsen's father asked.

Seated at his office desk, he spoke without so much as raising his head, forcing the man who had served as Edin Molsen's bodyguard to address the crown of his head. The bodyguard stood straight as he answered.

"He has awakened Will. He is at least a proto knight."

Ascend, open, reach, awaken, achieve. There were many ways to describe gaining the use of Will, but only one thing mattered here. That man could wield it. The black-haired, blue-eyed man the count had coveted, but seen no immediate need to acquire.

"Will?"

The quill stopped scratching across the page. The count raised his head, a clear shift of emotion in his eyes. The bodyguard thought it a rare sight. Having repeated the word, the count sank into thought.

'I knew the rumors about him were impressive, but Will?'

That meant he had truly become a proto knight. An actual proto knight and someone merely at that level were worlds apart. The very idea of comparing a second-rate swordsman to someone who wielded Will was absurd. Yet people kept calling such men proto knight-level. They meant someone who could more or less hold his own against a proto knight, if Will were taken out of the equation. The count knew all too well how pointless that was.

He set his quill down entirely and straightened in his chair.

'Will?'

He repeated the word inwardly, not by conscious choice. It simply happened. This was hardly something he could dismiss. The man had already seemed far beyond a squire.

What people across the continent called proto knight-level usually amounted to no more than a squire: someone who trained body and mind without Will. Some awakened Will while leading debauched lives. Others became proto knights after living as austerely as monks, knowing nothing but training. What they shared was combat prowess of at least territory level, and a name earned through it. Even a squire, then, was synonymous with a terrifyingly skilled swordsman.

Considered in that light, how empty an expression was proto knight-level? And this man had gone beyond even that to become the equal of an actual proto knight?

The bodyguard studied the count's face. Apart from the change in his eyes, his expression remained the same. He merely arranged his features into a pretense of indifference, then spoke with a faint smile.

"This has become interesting."

The count discarded most of the plans he had privately pondered and laid out.

"What was your own impression?"

Again he sought the bodyguard's judgment. The bodyguard considered his answer for a moment. How much should he say? This man's thoughts were impossible to fathom. He could not be trusted, either.

'Madman.'

A noble of Naurilia, yet he had entered into something like an alliance with Aspen's Hurrier family. The bodyguard's presence here was proof of it. In name, he was a guard and guest retainer of the count's household. In truth, he belonged to the Hurrier family. His true identity was that of a proto knight of Aspen.

This arrangement was the result of convoluted dealings among his superiors. As a proto knight with no political insight, it was none of his concern. He understood only the plain facts: this man was plotting something, and Aspen had agreed to it.

'Does he have any fatherly affection at all?'

None was apparent. Before he knew it, the long rays of sunset had reached through the window into the office. It was the hour when orange light enveloped everything. The bodyguard chose what he could say, then spoke.

"He was an exceptionally difficult, troublesome opponent, and he exerted a peculiar influence on those around him."

"You mean he draws people in and brings them under his command?"

That wasn't it. This was something rather different.

"No, not that. But..."

The bodyguard paused. How should he put this?

"Even without his intending it, everyone around them seemed to enjoy watching them and being at his side."

He recalled the half-Giant. She called herself Teresa the Wanderer, but anyone who failed to recognize her had shit for eyes. She had originally been an enemy. She had clearly belonged to another group and caused trouble, yet where was she now? At whose side did she remain? How was that possible? He could not make sense of it.

And what about the others around him? Finally, the bodyguard had also noticed a change in Edin Molsen. He was about to speak of the count's son when the count spoke first.

"They said Black Blade was after him?"

The sunset touched the left side of the count's face. For an instant, the bodyguard saw two faces, utterly different on either side of the line the light drew. Neither showed worry or concern for his son. Not even interest.

For a fleeting moment, the bodyguard thought something was off about the wording: the count had said that someone had told him Black Blade was after the man, rather than that he had heard it. But he held his tongue.

"So I heard."

"Yes, this has become very interesting indeed."

"Then I will take my leave."

The bodyguard suddenly felt sick. Dealing with this man brought the same questions back again and again. How far could human malice grow? What could a person discard for ambition? If someone opened the path to knighthood for him, how much could he give up?

'Even my family? My children?'

Should he offer them all as sacrifices and press onward? For ambition? Or should he stop for the sake of his humanity? The count before him did not look like a man who would stop. Children, family, affection—none of it seemed to have a place in his mind.

The bodyguard opened the office door and stepped out to find a man standing guard. Silver hair hung beneath the man's low-set black helmet. He dipped his helmet, and the bodyguard answered with a tilt of his chin before entering the dark corridor beyond the sunset's reach. The count's black-helmeted guard closed the door.

THUD.

The count propped his chin on one hand and watched the closed door. Wanting something to occupy his mouth, he took out a pipe, set it between his lips, and snapped his fingers. A flame flared to life, pushing back the sunset glow. He moved the flame at his fingertip to the pipe's bowl and lit it, smiling.

He drew on the pipe. Tobacco smoke filled his lungs, then passed back up his throat to billow from his lips. Mingling with the sunset, it looked orange.

"Those Black Blade bastards."

They would not enjoy this. If he was not merely proto knight-level but a true proto knight, and if, as the bodyguard's report suggested, every one of his companions was formidable, getting what they wanted would be far from easy.

'It would suit me if they succeeded, too.'

If Black Blade dealt Encrid's party a blow? He could weigh the balance then and make his move. Still, he doubted that would happen. It was only a vague hunch, but such hunches rarely failed him.

"It should be entertaining."

The count sank into thought. Nowhere in those thoughts was Edin Molsen.

* * *

The instant Encrid seized the attacker's wrist, the man pulled back with all his strength. Naturally, the wrist did not budge. It remained as still as an object in a still life. Veins bulged across the back of the hand under the crushing grip. Monstrous as everyone around Encrid was, his own strength did not lag behind theirs.

CRACK.

He pulled the wrist back and bent it. Twisted to an unnatural angle, it broke. Yet not so much as a groan escaped his opponent.

The crowd was packed to bursting. The market was half people, half merchandise. Few nearby had noticed what was happening.

"Fuck! What am I supposed to do with that after you've stepped on it?" a peddler roared from his stall.

"There's nowhere to walk!"

They would need to widen the streets, too. Had Krona been poured into that as well? There were signs of it. Work to widen the main road was also underway. The whole territory would grow larger at this rate.

The hunchback with the broken wrist reached out with his other hand. Before the man's elbow could fully straighten, Encrid snapped his right fist forward. It was too fast for an ordinary person—Krais beside him, for instance—to see. All Krais heard was a rush of air followed by a crunch.

Esther was a little startled by a blow that barely jostled her, despite her being in Encrid's arms.

'His movements are cleaner now?'

A witch by nature, she could not tell what had changed in him, but that was what her instincts told her.

Having shattered the hunchback's jaw, Encrid seized the hood of the thick robe covering him and yanked it off, revealing a shaggy-haired man with a bulging back. Breaking his wrist, throwing the punch, and stripping back the robe had taken only a few breaths.

Yet the instant that brief sequence ended, a projectile came whistling in. Encrid had the eye of Sixth Sense open. He spread his palm and swept it at the approaching projectile. It struck the ground with a sharp tap, knocked straight down at a right angle to its flight. It was a dart.

"These are no pushovers."

Encrid spoke as he nudged the dart with the toe of his boot.

"... Is that really something you can say after dealing with them just like that?"

Krais sounded incredulous. What about them wasn't easy?

Esther leaped from Encrid's arms. Several people nearby started at the sight of a panther landing on the ground. Others had noticed the fallen hunchback and the knife in his hand, as well as Encrid and Krais. Itinerant peddlers might not know their faces, but Border Guard's natives could hardly fail to recognize them.

"A knife!"

"An attack!"

"An assassin!"

Well now, one look and they had already worked their way up to assassin? The cries only added to the confusion. Chaos spread in every direction: screams, merchants howling, stallholders trying to protect their wares. It was a complete shitshow.

As he thought, Encrid expanded the range of his senses. Nothing registered. This was why he had said his opponents were no pushovers.

'I didn't sense him until he stabbed with the dagger.'

The dart thrower had perhaps slipped into the crowd immediately after the throw; Encrid could not find him anywhere. That was how deeply ingrained their concealment skills were. With fewer people around, he thought he might be able to pick them out, so he concentrated.

Where are you? He asked the question inwardly, bringing sight, hearing, smell, and touch to bear. Adding Sixth Sense to what he saw, heard, smelled, and felt gave him a rough direction. A faint trace of killing intent.

Just as he focused on it, something came hurtling from behind with a low whoosh. Slower than a dart, but heavier.

'A thrown stone?'

The thought sprang to mind as Encrid turned. The incoming projectile came into view. His ability to track movement, developed to a frightening degree through training and practice, let him see exactly what had been thrown. A leather pouch.

Encrid followed a peculiar intuition, a purely instinctive feeling. Drawing his gladius, he twisted his wrist to turn the broad flat of the blade upward, then struck hard from below as the pouch reached him.

THUNK! BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

The struck pouch burst in the air, spewing what looked like iron spikes in every direction.

'Well, look at that.'

He had never seen anything like this before.

"Aaaah!"

Several spikes fell below. Since it was winter and everyone wore thick layers, few people were pierced. But nothing could stop the confusion from growing worse.

"Damn it! Everyone inside the buildings! Anyone who stays out here will be treated as an enemy!"

The shout came from a soldier patrolling the market. The right call. At a time like this, force and coercion were the better way to get people under control.

Encrid did not move. He simply surveyed his surroundings with a steady gaze. Krais looked around, decided he was safer here, and stayed put.

ZIP!

Meanwhile, two more darts came flying in. One was aimed at Krais. The approaching darts became lines reaching toward them. Those lines lengthened, their endpoints and trajectories fixed within Encrid's perception.

His focus exploded: Concentrate on a Single Point. Keen senses, concentration, and a bold heart worked in harmony. Encrid moved as though performing a trick whose sequence was already set.

He evaded the dart aimed at him with a mere tilt of his head, while reaching out to snatch the other from the air. All of it was a single movement, completed within one breath.

Had the assassin who threw the darts seen it, his hair would have stood on end. Enough to make his bladder quiver and send him running. Of course, he must have seen it.

Encrid held the captured dart by one end between two fingers and dangled it back and forth.

'Look at these bastards.'

Targeting Krais?

Another dart followed after a delay. That one targeted Esther, but the panther had already dodged. How many humans could beat a beast for sheer nimbleness? Only the dart, striking the spot where she had stood with a sharp thud, remained as evidence that someone had aimed at her.

GRRR.

Esther bared her hostility while Encrid kept his senses open. The assassin—no, the group of assassins—was highly skilled.

'Deliberately leaking killing intent, then throwing a pouch of iron spikes.'

Had they coated those with poison, too? It seemed likely. Killing intent appeared and vanished here and there.

"Don't push! I said don't push!"

"Don't step on me!"

"Who do you think you're shoving? Do you know who I am?"

"Help me!"

"Aaaah!"

"Aaagh! Move, move!"

And the market became an even bigger shitshow.